Jim Hunter's Week
by Nancy T
Summary: He could remember only three things about himself: He was good in a fight, he wanted to be part of a team, and drawing attention to himself would be dangerous.
1. Monday

_This story is dedicated to Ilythia Major, who challenged me to write it. I was pretty low when she did so, and I think she was partly challenging me to do a specific kind of story, but also challenging me to Snap Out Of It! Which I did. Everyone should have friends like this._

_If you're ever in Kansas City and get a chance to see the Linda Hall Library, do it. The Rare Book reading room is a particular treat; you need to make an appointment to go there, and bring your ID, and then you can look at an original of Audubon's "Birds of America," or one of many other marvelous original editions. This story's thumbnail is from __Monstrorum historia__ by Ulisse Aldrovandi, published in 1642. I had to promise FedEx Office that no one would sue them for copyright infringement. _

_Thank you so much to library staffers Benjamin Gross, Vice President for Research and Scholarship, and Cindy Rogers, the Senior Research Specialist of Special Collections, who are both enthusiastic and helpful. _

"_Supernatural" is copyrighted by Warner Brothers Entertainment Inc._

.

MONDAY

A light, buzzing annoyance on his forehead. Sun was nice on his head and he relaxed, but the buzz was back. Fly. He wrinkled his forehead, stirred.

Hardness. He was asleep on something hard. He opened his eyes and shifted, sitting up straighter. A bench. Why?

He looked around. Nothing was familiar. Nice, but unknown. Why was he sitting on a bench in some kind of urban park sound asleep?

Let's see, the reason he came here –

No idea.

Where was he before that? No idea.

Home, he must have come from a – No idea. Places he knew? People he knew?

He couldn't remember his own name.

He sat bolt upright on the bench, grabbing its arm hard, eyes wide, breathing fast.

_Don't panic. There's an explanation. Maybe some leftover effect of the sleep, like sleep paralysis. Relax. It'll come to me._

_Well, I know the phrase sleep paralysis. Grab that and follow it. If I think about the field of medicine, does anything occur to me? Psychology, do I remember anything about psychology studies?_

_Maybe I __am__ a psychology study. I'm gonna complain about the ethics of it if I am._

_No, they need the info. And I probably signed a release anyway._

He shook his head. Try to relax. Think. Sports? Construction? Head injury? Hospital stay? Why would he be here? What was he doing before he fell asleep? What was he doing a month ago? Ten years ago?

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. He was a creature entirely of the present. No background, no relationships. No context.

He was starting to panic again.

_Don't. Panic gets you killed._

That came to him so surely that he knew it must have something to do with his biography.

_Try to think. Who told me that panic gets you killed? What incident drove it home, so deeply and so thoroughly, that I remember it even when I can't remember my name?_

The military, maybe? Post-traumatic stress, wiping out horrific memories by wiping out all memories?

Suddenly realizing that he'd missed the obvious, he searched his jeans pockets and the snapped pocket on his flannel shirt.

No phone, no wallet, no keys. His pockets were as empty as his memory.

_Some kind of crime. They hit me over the head and robbed me. I need to get to a hospital. They can check me out, put my picture out in public. Someone might – _

Don't. Do. That.

Again, it was immediate and resonant, reflexive. You don't call attention to yourself. You don't let them know who or where you are.

_Who's "them"?_

Walk into one of the large buildings surrounding the small park, tell someone his situation, ask them to call 911. This was the right thing. Intellectually. Make sure he didn't have some injury that would kill him within hours, let the hospital publicize him so that – someone could –

He could not do it. Intellect arguing with you one thing. Something so engraved on your mind that it's second nature screaming at you is something else.

_I don't know. Anything. I'm vulnerable. Call attention to myself, I could get killed._

But it was the only sensible thing to do.

Starting to panic again. He deliberately relaxed his muscles. Looked around him for a threat. Controlled his breathing. _Am I in danger now?_

He shot to his feet and turned.

No one behind him. The ground sloped up to a hilltop, two brown brick buildings linked by a brown brick wall on the hilltop.

He turned, looking for the threat. There were trees in the park, enough for beauty but not so many that a threat could hide effectively.

There was a plaque on the bench:

In honor of

Dr. James and Francie Flynn

for their generous support of the

Linda Hall Library

So maybe those were the buildings at the top of the hill?

_I've got to decide, get help or – _

_What do I do if I don't ask for help? Live like this always?_

Panicking again.

_Calm down. No one attacking now. Observe. Get data._

The bench was in the middle of the park and the middle of the hill. The ground sloped down in front of the bench as much as it sloped up behind him, giving him a great view of buildings nearby. At the border of the park, below him, a low stone wall separated the park from the street; on the other side of the street was a wide sidewalk. A man and woman were walking a dog down the sidewalk, talking to each other.

They knew who they were. God, he envied them.

Beyond the sidewalk there were two buildings, one with a sign out front that said "Swinney" and one a large white building he could see from the back. Over the top of that one, thanks to his elevation, he could see the building beyond the white building, a long two-story brown building with "UMKC" on it in bright white letters, and "KC Rep" in smaller letters, blue and white, beneath it.

KC, twice. He thought about it as he kept looking around. Kansas City?

If so, the UMKC would be University of Missouri at Kansas City. Of course there'd be a library on the grounds. KC Rep would be – he didn't know. But it made sense that he was in the Midwest. He could see no mountains on the horizon. The sun was warm but not searing, the surrounding trees were deciduous, varied shades of green that would turn and fall in – what? A few months?

_Yes. It's mid-June. A Monday. What the hell, how do I remember that and not remember where I am or how I got here?_

The grass was a little brownish in some areas, rich green in others: a little dry but not drought or desert. _And my name is –_

He'd thought he could trick his mind into revealing something while he thought about something else, but it just wasn't there. He knew what Midwestern America looked like, he knew the month, even the day.

He knew nothing about himself.

He didn't even know what he looked like.

He sank back down on the bench, breathing raggedly.

_Revisit the idea of getting some help, putting my face out there so someone might recognize – _

The back of his neck literally prickled at the thought. He looked behind him again. He had a great view from this bench, but man was he exposed.

He wondered again what he looked like. Looked at his arms. He knew damn well he was male, his skin said Caucasian.

_I'm a white male in the Midwestern United States. Well, that narrows things down._

He chuckled, then felt pleased with himself. A sense of humor at a time of crisis. That was good.

Maybe he didn't need to publicize his own face. If other people were looking for him, maybe they'd already gone to the police –

_God, I hope not._

_Why? What is the problem with finding help in the most logical place?_

Crap. Maybe he was a criminal.

Escapee who got a head injury in the course of an escape?

Well, this was ridiculous. He could sit here all day making up stories. He needed –

_I need a computer with internet access._

It made him feel better instantly. Something specific he could do. And libraries have computers.

He stood again, turned, started up the hill. Only now did he notice that the trees had small metal signs at their bases, giving the common and scientific names for each tree he passed. He read each one, something to think about besides his situation.

The entrance to the main brick building was two white two-story-tall, square arches with "Linda Hall Library" in squared-off lettering above them. He pushed open the doors beneath the arches and then on the other side of the foyer. Ahead, in the middle of two rows of desks, there was an amazing seven-foot-tall malachite sculpture. A man was sitting just to the left of the door – dressed casually, but, by his position, probably security of some kind. He was about to ask the man whether there was a computer he could use when he heard a friendly female voice: "Well, welcome back!"

He spun, excited. Maybe she could tell him –

But you don't reveal vulnerability. You don't reveal what you don't know – for instance, whether you come in here all the time or whether she just knows you from an hour ago.

"Yeah, hey," he said with a smile. "Good to see you again."

"Did you find what you needed?" the librarian asked him. She had a sweet face and ready smile, dark hair striking next to a fair complexion.

But it was her question that thrilled him. A clue! "Yeah, something occurred to me – can I take another look, has it been re-shelved?"

"I'm sorry, everyone in the Rare Book room either had to leave or is off today."

"Oh." _The Rare Book room?_

"Can you come back tomorrow?"

He laughed in a way that probably sounded a little strange, but it was a great tension release. "I see no reason why not. In the meantime – "

She was studying his face, and when he broke off, she tapped her own forehead. "You have something – a little – "

He touched his own forehead. There was something stiff there, like paint that had dried. "Yeah, I fell asleep outside. Hope I didn't rub my face in anything disgusting."

She laughed. "It's just a spot."

"I'll go wash it off. Bathrooms?"

"Right over there."

"And then, is there a computer I could use?"

She gestured to an alcove practically right next to where they were standing. "Right in there."

"Great. Is it just for the library, or is there internet access?"

"Oh, there's internet access."

"Terrific. Well, I'm just gonna go clean my face."

He was eager to find out what he looked like.

His first hint was before he actually pulled even with the sinks. He could tell that the mirrors wouldn't reflect the very top of his head. He was tall.

He liked the face in the mirror. A little goofy, maybe, pointed nose and chin, wide mobile mouth, longish hair, but a nice face. Early to mid-thirties. His smile was guileless, but seemed somehow guarded. Even so –

"If I met you, I'd like you," he told his reflection. It made him feel better about the whole escaped-criminal theory.

The spot was in the exact middle of his forehead. Dark green, thicker than paint, not as thick as oatmeal. It looked like someone had daubed it on there with a couple of fingers.

He studied it for a moment – it cracked when he drew his eyebrows together in puzzlement – then shrugged and turned on the faucet, ready to wash it off.

Then he stopped. He wetted the tips of a couple of his fingers and dampened the smudge thoroughly without removing it. Then he took a paper towel and tried to scrape as much of it as he could onto the paper. As he did this, he could smell a faint herbal smell coming from it. That's why the fly had liked it.

When he'd got most of the smudge smeared into the middle of the paper towel, he folded the paper around it and put it in the snap pocket of his shirt, then washed off the rest.

A thought struck him. He unbuttoned the second button of his shirt – the top one was already undone – and sniffed inside his shirt. Just a trace of body odor. If he was living on the street, it sure hadn't been for long.

No, from the librarian's reaction to him, it seemed more likely that he'd come in to research something, left, fell asleep on a bench in the arboreal grounds of the library, and woke up like this.

It struck him to confide in the librarian, but he didn't want to put her in danger too. Whatever the hell the danger was.

He started to fasten his shirt button, then hesitated, looking in the mirror. A tattoo.

He ripped open the next couple of buttons and opened the shirt wide, examining it.

A dark, five-pointed star in a circle, a pentacle, surrounded by the curving pointed flames of an equally dark sun. No slogan. It didn't look military, and he couldn't think of any pop-cultural references. It looked occult.

A guy walked in and broke stride a bit, seeing his chest in the mirror.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked before he could stop himself.

The guy gave a little snorted laugh. "No, don't you?"

He started re-buttoning his shirt. "Last time I go drinking with that particular buddy."

"That's not so bad," the guy said, turning to a urinal and unzipping. "I know a guy who got Gene Simmons tattooed on his ass."

He laughed as he left. "OK, I feel better."

As he settled in front of a computer, he was pondering. "Last time I go drinking with that particular buddy" had just rolled out. He lied easily, and that was disconcerting. Now he was back to thinking he was a criminal – maybe a con man, and someone had taken violent exception to being conned.

But, again, if so, why wasn't he bruised? Bleeding? Where were any signs of head trauma? Judging by the length of his hair, if he'd had any kind of medical procedure on his head, it was at least a year ago.

_If I lie easily, but I don't really like it that I lie easily, what does that make me? Willy Loman? Nah, Willy Loman didn't really have a problem with lying. He had a problem with facing the consequences of his own actions._

_Great. I know all about "Death of a Salesman," but nothing about myself. Well, I know something. If the terms "sleep paralysis" and "Willy Loman" come to mind readily, I'm probably either an avid reader or well educated, maybe both._

He woke up the computer and got onto the internet.

Briefly, he researched the Linda Hall Library. Sure enough, right in the middle of the University of Missouri-Kansas City campus. It wasn't the university's library, though; it specialized in science, engineering, technology. Special Collections – which he assumed would include books in the Rare Book Room – included sets of publications from engineers' societies, as well as a History of Science collection.

None of it rang a bell, but at least now he had an idea of where he was. Now he began researching missing persons in Kansas City. In Missouri. In Kansas, which was about a 10-minute drive from the library. If he had a car.

No missing persons looked like him. He drew a breath and did a search on escaped or wanted criminals in the same areas. No one who looked like him. Thank God.

"Hi, can I help you?"

The librarian's tone was still sweet but brisk, and he looked around to see her addressing a young man whose uncombed hair, square black-framed glasses, and short-sleeved shirt screamed "nerd."

"Oh, um, yeah, I wanted to look up some stuff here and then go to the stacks."

"Can I see your library card?"

"Oh, um – yeah, sorry – " The guy was fumbling in various pockets as the librarian led him to the main desk.

He smiled. Future absent-minded professor.

Then it struck him: This was going to be his only chance to use these computers. The librarian let him sit down here because she'd recognized him from earlier that day – when, apparently, he had a library card. But if he came back tomorrow she'd probably need to see it again, or someone would, and he didn't have it. If he said he'd lost it, they'd need identification to issue him a new one. And he didn't have that either.

He was starting to panic again.

He closed his eyes and forced calm on himself. If this was his only shot at this computer, he needed to make the most of it. From his research, he knew that the library would close in an hour.

He spent the time researching amnesia, beginning with the Mayo Clinic website, which he knew was a sound site for medical information. Another of those bits of knowledge he'd have traded in a heartbeat for any clue to his own identity.

What he had, the loss of personal memories, was called retrograde amnesia. It was rare, and usually caused by head trauma. No matter where he looked, he couldn't find any hopeful notes about some way to stimulate the return of memory.

A hunger pang made him think he'd like to get a snack, and he suddenly realized: I can't.

Actually, the lack of money panicked him less than the amnesia. The lack of an identity made him feel not quite human; the lack of money was just a matter of logistics.

How can you get food? You grow it – not exactly feasible. You pick it wild – this was an urban area, there weren't going to be any wild blueberry patches around. You buy it with cash, if you have that, which he didn't. You buy it on credit, if you have a card, which he didn't. You borrow it, if you know someone who trusts that you'll repay him, which he didn't. You go to a charity. You beg for money. You steal money. Or you just steal the food.

Of those, he was a little repelled to find that he minded stealing food least. Both going to a soup kitchen and begging on a street corner – well, there was the pride issue, of course, but it wasn't even really the main issue. Both of them involved public acknowledgment of vulnerability that would put him in danger, like calling the police or going to a hospital.

At some point he was going to try really hard to focus on this sense of danger. If he could get even a clue as to what he felt threatened by, that would tell him something about himself.

In the meantime, though, he had to take some fast steps. He asked the librarian for some paper and a pen – "I left everything in the car" – and she obliged with several sheets and a ballpoint pen with the library's logo on it.

He was startlingly gratified. They felt like treasures, the first acquisitions of a new life.

He researched "homeless shelters," "soup kitchens," "grocery store," and "convenience store" near UMKC. The food pantries all required ID; the soup kitchens were in a completely different part of town, and would have stopped serving by the time he walked there.

So. Theft it was, then.

The library was closing. He dredged up a smile for the librarian and waved to her as he left.

He'd jotted down directions to the nearest grocery store in small writing – he wanted to conserve his paper – but he pretty well had it memorized, so he focused on the surrounding area as he walked. He figured it would be about a three-mile walk, which made him think to look at his shoes.

They were boots, actually, durable, with thick soles. They'd seen some hard wear, creased and scuffed, the tread on the soles worn and a sharp nick in the edge of one heel, but they'd last a good long time.

Not that he was going to be like this for a good long time. While he was walking and had nothing else to do but think, he set a deadline. It was a little after 5:00 on Monday. If Thursday night came around and he still had no idea who he was or where he belonged, he'd walk on over to St. Luke's Hospital nearby and turn himself in.

For a couple of blocks he'd been passing a large beautiful park on his left, and he now noticed a drinking fountain there. He walked down a steep slope from the street, took a drink, and suddenly realized how thirsty he was. He glugged water, literally thanking God for that fountain.

He made his way back up the slope to the street and walked the few blocks to the grocery store.

He'd been pondering a plan as he walked, and when he walked in the door he saw what he considered to be his third good break (computer access at the library and the water fountain being his first two): The clerks were all wearing loose-fitting bright red vests.

He picked up a grocery basket. Stopping quickly at an unmanned checkstand, he grabbed a grocery bag and put it in the basket. Then he headed down an aisle toward the back of the store. When he saw a pair of swinging doors labeled "Employees Only," he went in as though he had every right to do it.

Just as he went in, a guy in a butcher's cap and apron walked out, but he was walking quickly and looked intent on something, didn't even seem to see him.

It was a hallway with gray cinder-block walls and a cement floor. He could hear voices echoing from another corridor to his left. To his right was a deep sink with soap and paper towels, emergency eye wash and a first-aid kit mounted on the wall next to them.

He passed that and continued a few yards. To his right, the wall suddenly opened up with a window and door into a lighted office. The office was empty, and a red vest hung over the back of a chair behind the desk.

He took in and let out a breath, walked calmly into the office, picked up the vest, and walked calmly back out.

Once he'd put it on and grabbed his shopping basket again, he went straight to the aisle where trail mix was sold. He looked over the racks, bringing forward bags that were pushed back on the rods, straightening bags and boxes on shelves. The idea was to look commonplace, hopefully boring, to anyone looking at a security camera, so that when he picked up one bag of trail mix, glanced at the bottom of the bag, and tossed it into the basket, it would just look like he'd found a ripped or outdated bag.

He did the same thing with beef jerky and a bottle of flavored water. In the produce section he re-stocked an empty rack of plastic bags (using half of a full rack elsewhere in the section), looked at a couple of apples like they had bad spots on them, and tossed them into the basket.

He walked back to the restroom and locked the door. He took off the vest and folded it in the bottom of the plastic bag. He put the other items on top of it in the bag. It was a tight squeeze, but he was able to pull the handles together at the top.

He took the opportunity to go to the bathroom and wash his hands and face. He should've stolen some hygiene items while he was at it, but he wanted to keep himself to one bag and he'd rather have the food. He pulled some paper towels out of the dispenser, ran water on half of them, folded the dry paper towels and put them in one of his pockets, and squished the wet ones down into the bag.

He opened his shirt and looked at the tattoo again. He was going to keep asking about that, either on a computer or in a tattoo place. It was the best clue he had to his identity.

Unless –

"If this works, I'm gonna feel like a moron," he mumbled, pulling off his shirt.

He looked on the labels and in the neckband to see if there was a name written there. There wasn't, so he didn't have to feel like a moron.

As he was putting his shirt back on he paused, then drew closer to the mirror. There was a long white scar on the right side of his ribcage, just above the gut, crossed by another scar.

He pulled closer to the mirror, and only then noticed the long faint scar along his collarbone. He looked at his arms. Scars on both of them, and on one of them was a nasty burn scar, looked like someone had hit him with a hot poker. On his left arm was a pretty thick scar with faint dots of scarring on both sides; it looked like the wound had been sewn up by someone without adequate training or equipment. He turned, looking over his shoulder at his back, and sucked in a breath.

There was a thick two-inch-long scar right over his spinal cord in his lower back.

"How are you still walking?" he whispered. "How are you still alive?"

He put his shirt back on slowly, looking at his image.

"Tough life for sure," he said to his image, who said it back. "What the hell went on with you?"

It struck him that he ought to have a name. Names were important to people. He didn't know how he knew that – probably read it somewhere in some psych textbook or something.

Between the episodes of hand-to-hand combat.

He gave a friendly smile to his image. "Hi, what's your name?"

He looked for a moment at the smiling guy in the mirror.

"Jim. You look like a Jim to me," he said.

The image seemed to agree with that, so Jim nodded his head, picked up the shopping basket, and headed to the front of the store.

There was a closed checkout stand next to a busy open one. Jim put the shopping basket on the floor and flipped through a National Enquirer for a few moments.

Then he put the magazine back on the rack, pulled the stuffed-full plastic bag out of the shopping basket, and joined a couple of other people who were leaving the busy checkout stand, walking out the door with them.

He almost held his breath walking across the parking lot, but when he reached the sidewalk he relaxed, physically if not emotionally.

_Well, if I wasn't a criminal before, I am now._

On the other hand, it heartened him a little that he felt bad about it.

He went back to the big park he'd passed along the way and sat on a bench. The polyester vest, when folded inside the bag, gave him at least something of a surface to write on. He put one of his sheets of paper on that surface and wrote as he drank flavored water and ate some trail mix, some of his beef jerky, and half an apple.

_Find a public library: Research missing persons again; research AWOL soldiers; research tattoo; research soup kitchens again (ask churches)_

_Hygiene products_

_A way to get money without stealing_

_ID_

He thought for a moment more, then wrote:

_DEADLINE: Thursday, 5:00 p.m._

He would have loved to eat more, but he wanted to conserve the food. He finished off the water, refilled the bottle at the drinking fountain, and began walking to explore his surroundings, keeping an eye out for any opportunity.

On maps he'd seen back at the library, he knew that the area on the other side of the park was called the Country Club Plaza. It was an upscale shopping district with beautiful, European-looking architecture ringed by modern multi-story office buildings and apartments. There was a fountain, large or small, every couple of blocks; this began with a huge fountain with four big statues of horsemen. Someone tossed a coin into it as he passed, and he moved closer to it. There weren't a lot of coins in the fountain, but a few. Too many people around to take coins out – the fountain itself was obviously an attraction, and rightly so – but he kept an eye out, rolling his sleeves to the elbows. He was able, a couple of times, to dip a few coins out of fountains set in niches of the older buildings.

He asked a few people passing by where there was a public library. The first three had no idea, two of them saying apologetically, "I'm from out of town." But then he ran across a couple so young they looked like they were just out of college, and they told him that there was a Plaza Library. It was back east, the way he'd come, and a few blocks south. The guy even looked it up on his phone, and told Jim that the library closed at 6:00.

Thanks to church bells that had chimed awhile ago, Jim knew that it was after six. So that gave him something to do tomorrow, after he'd figured out how to eat without stealing.

For now, he'd take advantage of the long June day to keep wandering around, looking for clues and opportunities and just getting a feel for the area. An older man did a key-for-stub exchange with a parking valet in front of a nice-looking restaurant. Young women window-shopped for outfits whose prices were inversely proportional to the amount of fabric used. Colorful banners celebrating summer and the Kansas City Royals hung from lampposts.

And there was a Barnes & Noble. He stared through its windows as longingly as the young women gazing at overpriced dresses.

_Yeah, I'm a reader, all right._

After a few minutes of staring into the windows, he dug the supermarket vest out of his grocery bag, put it on, and went in. A few minutes later he emerged with a Scientific American occupying the space in the bag where the vest had been.

_It's not just for reading. You roll it up and put some muscle behind it, a magazine can be a weapon._

_And who the hell thinks like that, exactly?_

Well, someone with scars all over him.

He had some time yet before the sun set, but he was aware that he was going to have to find a safe place to spend the night. Safe from what? He wished he knew.

He thought about it as he walked west along the Plaza's main street and suddenly realized that, without conscious thought, he was returning to the Linda Hall Library.

He wasn't sure why. He had a feeling about libraries – again, with no specific memories to back it up – that they were safe, or at least welcoming.

Actually, there was a practical reason too. He'd read, during his research on amnesia, that often amnesiacs have a hard time retaining new memories, so it's difficult for them to learn new things. It had given him a moment's fear.

But, he figured, if he could leave Linda Hall and wander a couple of miles away in a random pattern, but then find his way back again – and better yet, find his way from the library to the grocery store or the Plaza again tomorrow – he'd feel better about his ability to learn. The magazine would help with that too.

As he ambled, he decided to think about a last name. "Pleased to meet you, I'm Jim – " It ought to be something related to his circumstances.

No, not Jim Amnesiac.

He sat in the big park and finished his half-apple while reading the magazine. There was an article in there about 2019 being the International Year of the Periodic Table, and he decided to memorize some of the elements in order of atomic number. He already knew that hydrogen was 1 – of course he did, because the information was completely useless in the current predicament – but he memorized the next 14 and then stood to walk back to the library. He'd repeat it a few times between now and going to sleep, and if he could remember them tomorrow morning, he'd stop worrying about whether he could learn and retain new things.

He pulled out his notes and wrote, "What are the first 15 elements in the periodic table?" Just in case he didn't remember to ask himself that.

The sun was low by the time he resumed walking, but he still had time to get to the library before dark. He was lucky that this had happened in June, and he didn't have to worry about freezing to death on top of everything else.

_You know. As lucky as totally losing your memory is, while having a sense of looming threat that you can't remember._

He decided to take a road parallel to the one he'd taken before, and actually passed right by the Plaza Library. OK, something else he could test himself on. He wrote on his notes, "I walked by the Plaza Library. Where is it?"

He was tired by now, and he thought about spending the night here, but this library was surrounded by concrete – a wide drive, restaurants, a parking garage, so he decided to press on.

He went back to thinking about a surname. He was looking for his identity. Well, actually, right now he was looking for a full day's worth of meals, but eventually he was seeking his identity. Jim Seeker? Jim Searcher?

Jim Prober? No.

Jim Hunter?

_Not bad. Sounds like a real name. Be pretty funny if it turns out that it is my real name._

He had to stop at an intersection of two big boulevards, and a car slowed beside him before making a left turn. The windows were open, and he could see the driver and passenger, who looked like a father and a son about 10 or 12. The kid was bellowing along cheerily to some popular song on the radio, and he could hear the father laugh as the car turned the corner.

All of his determined optimism deserted him. He stood watching cars go past and had to fight tears.

_Do I have a dad? Is he looking for me? A wife? A son of my own? Why is this happening?_

The light changed, and he thought for a moment of just sitting down on the sidewalk, giving up. Letting someone else take over when he got to be too much of an annoyance to pedestrians.

Instead, he put one foot in front of the other and kept moving. He deliberately turned his attention outward, observing as much of the large elegant office buildings and the big park as he could, reciting the first 15 elements of the periodic table, anything to keep himself from thinking about himself.

By the time he reached the low stone wall at the foot of the Linda Hall Library's park on a hill, he was very tired. That was good. He wouldn't have to struggle too much to get to sleep.

He hopped over the wall. There were four bushes planted in an arc with a stone bench in the middle. He sat down on the bench, took off his shoes and socks, and looked at his feet and lower legs. A couple of more scars on the legs, but none on his feet. Obviously he wore heavy-duty shoes like this a lot.

He stuffed his feet back into his shoes. Then he rolled the magazine tightly and tied it firmly with his socks, for a weapon. He wrapped the plastic bag around his food and the water bottle, then left that on top of the bench, where hopefully it wouldn't attract the attention of insects as much as it would on the ground.

He sat on the ground with the bushes at his back and the bench in front of him. It was by no means a fortress, but hopefully would hide him a little from the police. Or whoever the threat was.

He took off the vest, folded it and put it on the ground for a pillow. Hoping to keep his shirt looking decent, he put it on inside out before he lay down.

Really, he might as well have curled up on concrete. He was hungry, and very aware of the limits of the weapon he was clutching.

And then it occurred to him: _This won't be forever._

_If nothing else, on Thursday night I go to a hospital and face whatever consequences come from that, jail or assassins or whatever the hell. But I think there's a good chance that I figure it out by then. I'm smart, and I'm persistent. I don't know who I am, but I know that much._

It didn't make him less hungry or make the ground any softer, but it did let him get to sleep.


	2. Tuesday

TUESDAY

At one o'clock in the morning, Dean Winchester slammed open the door between the bunker's garage and living quarters and yelled, "Cas! Where the hell are you?"

"Here." Castiel's voice came from around a corner before he walked into Dean's view, carrying a suit bag on a hanger. "I thought you might want your FBI outfit."

Dean caught his breath, closed his eyes for a moment. "Yeah. Thanks."

He got in the Impala and started it with a roar as Castiel put the suit on the back seat and got quickly into the front passenger seat. "Hope you don't have to go to the bathroom. We're driving straight through."

Cas gave a small smile as Dean drove out of the garage. When the door was sealed behind them, he hit the accelerator and drove out of Lebanon as if the town were a freeway.

"You are certain that Sam hasn't just driven on to Iconium?" Cas asked.

"They have cell phone towers in Iowa. He could answer my calls. And he'd have called first from Kansas City, saying he was going on. Besides, the last time I called the hotel, they put me through to his room. They didn't say, 'He's not a guest here.'"

"When did you last check the gmail account?"

"Just now, when you were getting the suit."

Cas nodded. After a moment, Dean said, "Hope he didn't start off and have trouble before he could call. This is only the fourth time that Coronet's been driven since 1958."

"But you are the one who restored and updated the car. I have absolute confidence in its road-worthiness. And Sam's a good driver."

"Yeah."

"If he had been in an accident so serious that he couldn't communicate with you, he would almost surely have cracked or broken at least one rib. That would have vitiated the angel-warding symbols I put on your ribs, and we'd know where he is. I wouldn't be able to fly to him," Cas added in frustration, "but we would at least know where to go."

"So we know he hasn't got broken ribs. Guess that's a good sign." Dean didn't sound optimistic, though.

"Is there any way that Sam's disappearance could be related to the present case?"

"I've thought about that. But I just don't see how, Cas. It's a water monster. How's it gonna get from Rathbun Lake to Kansas City? Hitch a ride on a Mountain Valley Spring truck? And even if it did, how would it know that Sam was after it? We only read about the deaths at the lake day before yesterday. What did it do? Say, I know Sam Winchester's after me and he'll probably stop at this library in KC to do research on me, so I'll figure out which hotel room he's in and ambush him from the bathtub?"

Cas smiled. "It does seem unlikely."

After a moment Dean said irritably, "Why do they have a book about monsters in a science library, anyway?"

"Aldrovandi was a naturalist, but he was also a man of his time. In the 1500s and 1600s, science was intertwined with religion and folklore. In _Monstrorum historia_, Aldrovandi wrote about monsters of the kind you hunt, but also about humans with deformities and unusual animals, both explaining anatomy and speculating on God's purposes."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "You did some research yourself."

"I assisted Aldrovandi in some of his works about animals. I wasn't in a vessel then, I just provided some hints and inspiration."

For the first time in hours, Dean cracked a smile. "Yeah. Sometimes I forget about – you."

"My checkered past? I'm sorry that my assistance didn't reach to his text about monsters, or Sam wouldn't have had to go to Kansas City."

"Nah, that was – You know, I think he was glad to get the chance to get off by himself for a while, try out the car. Stupid push-button transmission."

The skin around Dean's eyes grew tight with tension, and he pushed the Impala an additional five miles an hour.

They reached the hotel near dawn. Dean stood in the hall, his gun in a two-handed grip, as Castiel put his hand on the door handle of Sam's room, waited for the green light, and flung the door open. He had insisted on going in first, but did so with a turn around the door that left the entrance open for Dean to charge in, gun pointed straight out in front of him.

There was no one in the room. The bathroom door was open, but the light out. Dean went in with the gun in his right hand, flipping the light switch with his left. No one, and nothing, there either.

Cas closed the door and Dean asked, "Are you picking up on anything I'm not?"

"I'm not picking up on anything."

Dean started going through the dresser drawers and Cas looked into the closet. "There's a duffel bag in here. It looks like he didn't unpack."

"Yeah, a lot of times we don't, you know." Cas put the bag on one of the beds, Dean unzipped it and looked through it. There was a change of shirt and jeans, a few sets of underwear and socks, and one spare pair of boots. "His toothbrush and stuff is in the bathroom. You know what I'm not seeing? The weapons bag."

They searched the room for the other big duffel, but it wasn't there. "Perhaps he took it with him."

"Maybe," Dean said. "But if he did, it means he was expecting trouble. And there's not supposed to be any trouble here. Let's go find the car."

They walked the entire parking garage. A coral-and-white 1956 Dodge Coronet would not be difficult to spot. But they couldn't spot it.

"All right," Dean said with a rasp in his voice. "Now we start flashing badges and asking questions."

"Dean. You've been up all night. You look like it, and so do your clothes. If you flash a badge now, people will call the FBI to confirm."

"Marshal's office, I think we'll be U.S. Marshals this time. So – what? You're saying I get some sleep while my brother's missing? There's no way."

"You know there is a way. Four hours' sleep, some food, a shower, a change of clothes, and anyone will tell you anything."

"Three hours' sleep. And screw the shower."

"All right."

On their way out of the garage they passed a couple of BMWs and Cadillacs. "This is a much nicer place than the motels where you usually stay," Castiel said.

Dean shrugged. "It was the closest place to the library. And we've got about three thousand bucks right now, one in the online account and two in the wall safe. Sam took two or three hundred to pay for this trip. Which reminds me, I've got like twenty bucks on me. Remind me to get some more cash, in case we need to bribe anyone."

When they reached the room, Dean settled down on the nearest bed, pulled off his shoes, and dropped onto his back. "Three hours," he said firmly. "Not a minute more."

"Understood. I'll have breakfast here when I wake you." Cas touched Dean's forehead, and Dean's face relaxed as his eyes closed.

Cas actually took off his coat and shoes before he sat on the bed beside Dean. He rested his back against the headboard and gazed straight ahead meditatively.

.

Jim woke with a start, clutching his weapon, eyes wide.

It was a moment before he remembered why he was where he was. It was a moment more before he realized that he ached from sleeping on the ground and he was wet with dew.

He sat up slowly, looking around, looking behind him. It was full light, but the street running by the low stone wall was empty. Early morning. And yes, it was June, but he was cold. He'd have to remember to get something to cover himself with tonight.

He stood, stretched, sat down on the bench next to his bag of food. He'd wrapped the plastic bag tightly around it, but a line of curious ants was still wandering all over it, looking for a way in.

_OK. I'm going to take five minutes to wallow, then I'm going to start planning the day._

He picked up the bag and shook ants off of it. He dug into it for the second apple he'd stolen yesterday, munching on it, staring at his bare feet on the dirt – apparently the bench's shade kept grass from growing around it. He didn't wallow exactly, but he did wonder why this had happened to him.

After a couple of minutes he looked up at a light blue sky, then down again at the ground.

_Lord, I could use some help. Now maybe I'm a scumbag who doesn't deserve help. But what the heck kind of lesson am I supposed to learn if I don't even remember that I'm a scumbag?_

_ And anyway, I don't believe it. I may have done something wrong, but I don't think I'm cruel or violent. I think I'm – _

He shook his head, drawing a blank.

_Well, I'm a guy who could use some help._

He took another bite of apple.

_So I prayed. It just kind of seemed to come naturally. Was I raised religious? Is it just hard-wired in me? Is it just hard-wired into humans when they're in trouble?_

He pondered it while he finished the apple. Then he sighed, straightened, began untying his socks from around the magazine. They were so damp that wearing them under his shoes all day would be a bad idea.

He stood, got the grocery store vest from off the ground, and looked over at a building labeled "Swinney" as a college kid with a big gym bag swung one of the doors open and went in.

OK, the building was open. Any chance he could get into a restroom?

He could, and stared bleakly at himself in the mirror.

"Jim," he announced, "you look like crap."

He took off his shirt, washed his face and neck thoroughly. They had blow dryers for drying your hands, to his joy. He put his shirt back on right-side out, so that hopefully he wouldn't look too much like a homeless person as he blasted air into his socks. Someone did look at him a little strangely, but he just acted like drying your socks under an air dryer in a classroom-building bathroom was completely normal, and the guy left after doing his business.

After he'd put his dry socks and shoes on, he took one more look at himself in the mirror, dampened and finger-combed his hair, and ran a hand over his chin. At the moment he could probably pass off his day's stubble as an attempt at trendiness, but pretty soon he was just going to start looking ill-groomed. He either had to grow a beard or get a razor. And a beard had to be groomed, too.

He had an idea of how to make some money – OK, scam some money – and the Plaza Library wouldn't be open for a couple of hours, so he'd try that now. He remembered how to get to the grocery store from here.

And he remembered 14 of the first 15 elements. So apparently he had the capacity to learn and retain new things. That was a relief.

He was wearing the store's vest when he got there. He hid his grocery bag of dwindling food in a barrel where people put plastic bags to be recycled, grabbed one of the empty bags, and went out front. There was a display of lawn furniture and a rack with three tiers of flowers ready for planting. Wielding the empty bag as if it were some kind of cleaning cloth, he began wiping dust off of the lawn furniture.

When a middle-aged woman emerged with a cart full of groceries, he looked over and gave her a smile. "Do you need some help with those?"

He pushed the cart out to the car and loaded the trunk, and she tipped him a dollar.

That was beginner's luck. It was followed by a long stretch of customers who either didn't want help or didn't tip him. But then there was another dollar. And eventually another. It was what he thought gambling would be like – long stretches of frustration, but an almost addictive thrill when it paid off.

He kept an eye out for management types the whole time, but luck was with him. The only other store employee he saw was a kid running carts from the corrals into the store. They exchanged a quick nod.

It took hours, but eventually he had seven dollars in his pocket, besides the sixty-two cents he'd stolen from the Plaza fountains. He retrieved his bag from the barrel, and ate trail mix as he walked to the Plaza Library.

.

Dean and Cas made phone calls to every hospital and police station in the Kansas City area – which, when you included all the suburbs on both sides of the state line, was a lot of calls. They cleared out of the room, taking Sam's bag with them, before the hotel could get too insistent about checkout time. Dean scrounged up four quarters to leave for the housekeeper.

The parking valet vividly remembered seeing the Coronet the previous day at about lunch hour, and noticing that it was gone just a couple of hours later, but since it had been parked in self-parking, he hadn't seen the driver, or anyone with the driver, at any point.

"Does that sound right?" Cas asked as they left the garage, headed for the front door.

"So far. Sam left the bunker about six a.m. yesterday. He'd have got here about eleven, and he was going to check in, shower, get some lunch, and then head to the library. He was going to spend the night here, then meet us at the motel in Iconium today and get started on the case."

"We should check the motel to see if they've seen or heard anything."

"Already did. They haven't." Dean straightened his tie and pulled his U.S. Marshal's badge. "Let's go look at some security tapes."

Cas opened the door for him, and Dean barreled into the lobby looking ready to arrest everyone in sight.

.

Jim's luck held at the Plaza Library. No one even seemed to notice that he stayed at a computer for hours, making notes, eating beef jerky and drinking water.

He started the same way he had yesterday, researching missing persons and escaped criminals, and added in AWOL military personnel. No photos looked like him, and no descriptions matched him. He researched other grocery stores in the area – he figured he'd pushed his luck as far as it would go with that one – and the design of his tattoo, which was even more elusive than a grocery store in that area.

He took a look around, as if casually, drew a breath, and started trying to get onto the darknet.

That was what took most of the time. The library's computer was well fortified against a non-administrator even getting into it, much less opening it to the pit of monsters that was the darknet. But Jim discovered that he enjoyed the challenge just on general principles, and he remembered some tricks and tools that let him walk into the darknet's maw after a couple of hours of effort.

_How can I remember how to do things, complicated difficult things, and have no memory of how or where I learned them? What the hell kind of amnesia have I got?_

Determining to get to the bottom of that tomorrow, he searched the darknet for essentially the same things he'd searched legitimate websites for.

Looking for missing people was a plunge into depression. Most of the sites were about missing children, and he had the feeling that these kids weren't being sought so much as offered. He made notes of the sites where he found those, thinking to pass them along anonymously to law enforcement, although God knew where the assholes were based. Looking for wanted criminals or AWOL military was only a shade less depressing, leading him to anti-government conspiracy-theory sites featuring open threats against named leaders.

But the tattoo – even though he could still only describe it without a scanned-in image – gave him a real lead. Of some kind.

The image, along with another one, was on a long holster holding a shotgun. A separate picture showed the gun itself. The site was called verminmurder, and the text read:

"NO SERIAL #, NO HISTORY

"Salt shooter can be modified for silver, iron. Anti-possession, anti-angel symbols burned into leather holster give extra protection to wearer. $500. #2325."

So he'd had either an anti-possession or an anti-angel symbol tattooed on his chest at some point.

_What does that mean, I'm crazy?_

He didn't feel crazy. But of course, a lot of crazy people don't.

So if you have this tattoo, apparently you're afraid that you're going to be possessed by the devil. Or you're anti-angel. He wasn't sure which symbol was which.

_Who the hell is anti-angel? So to speak._

He was starting to get really hungry, and he'd promised himself something. Not only that, his butt was tired. Quickly, he opened up a gmail account – jhuntermemory – and sent a message to verminmurder: "Interested in the symbols on item 2325. Do you know where in the Kansas City area I could get a tattoo like those?"

There was no reason why the guy should answer, but it was worth a shot. Meantime, he got the hell out of the darknet, did quick research on tattoo parlors and New Age bookstores, and discovered that there were a couple of each nearby, in a district called Westport.

Westport had a McDonald's and a discount drugstore too. He cleared the browser, stood with an anticipatory grin, and left.

.

Dean and Cas sat in the McDonald's on the Plaza. A half-eaten bacon cheeseburger sat in front of Dean, and he picked at a large order of fries. Cas sipped coffee, looking around at their fellow diners. It was a crowded place; their table was a bubble of silence in the stream of noise.

"We know that he made it to the Linda Hall Library," Cas said finally. "And we may have a lead with the three people who were also in the Rare Book reading room at the same time that Sam was. The young woman on the security tape who passed him distinctly looked at the page he was reading."

"He was looking at a picture of a monster. Hard not to catch someone's attention for a moment." Dean shook his head, picked up the burger, and before taking a bite said, "No, whatever it was, it happened outside. During that ten minutes when the outside security cam mysteriously failed."

"The alternative explanation is that Sam discovered something in the book that he wanted to follow up, took the car to do that, and the security camera failure is a coincidence."

"You believe that?" Dean's question was muffled by burger.

"No."

Dean swallowed, shook his head, took a sip of soda. "Me either. Let's start questioning those other researchers. You got their contact information, right?"

Cas nodded. "It requires a previous appointment and identification to access that room, so we have addresses for all three. I got them from the Senior Research Specialist while you were looking at the tapes. She noticed nothing out of the ordinary, and she herself is unquestionably human. I also asked her if she had noticed cold spots or sulfur smells. She said no, in an odd tone. I think she was wondering if she should be insulted."

"They always are. Unless they have noticed the smell. Then they look at you like, 'What kind of surveillance device have you planted here?'" Dean gave a slight humorless smile. "Part of the job. Where do the researchers live?"

"The older man, Beau Yellen, lives about twenty minutes away in a Kansas suburb." Cas didn't have to make reference to any notes. "The young woman, Lili Cabot, lives in downtown Kansas City. The graduate student, Scott Anderson, lives north of here, about halfway between the library and Ms. Cabot's home."

"OK. We'll take 'em in that order, hit up the old guy before he goes to bed."

Dean gave a decisive nod, but then went still, staring at the table sightlessly.

"We will find him," Cas said firmly.

Dean raised his head, nodded sharply. "Right. Let's get going."

He bundled up his half-eaten burger and half-eaten fries, and threw them out as they left.

.

At the discount store in Westport, Sam bought a razor and a bar of soap, stole a comb and deodorant. He asked the checker for a large bag, "so I can consolidate my stuff," and slid the plastic grocery-store bag, which was beginning to fray, into the new bag.

The deodorant might stave off his smelling too bad for another day or so, but if he couldn't wash these clothes or get clean ones, he was going to start reeking. He wanted to remain as presentable and non-desperate looking for as long as he could; he had the feeling that people would give him information more readily.

And he only had about 48 hours before his self-imposed deadline to report to a hospital, when he'd stop asking questions and be the one trying to answer them.

For now, though, the treat he'd promised himself. He walked to the Westport McDonald's, bought a quarter-pounder with cheese and a piece of apple pie in a box, and put the pie in his bag for later. But, after refilling his trusty water bottle, he ate the burger right then, making sure he got every crumb.

He had no way of knowing, of course, but he suspected that nothing he'd ever eaten had tasted that good.

.

The sun was low, and the light reflected off the water was mellow and warm. Dean and Castiel stood side by side on the walkway at Riverfront Park, staring into the Missouri River.

Dean said, "Are you sure you got the address right?"

Cas just looked at him.

"OK," Dean said. "Her address puts her in the middle of the river. So either Lili Cabot's a mermaid, or she's a fraud."

"What now?"

"We do what we were going to do before," Dean said, turning. "We talk to the third researcher, Scott Anderson. And besides asking what he noticed about Sam, we also find out anything he noticed about that woman."

.

After dinner, Jim walked to a New Age bookstore and two tattoo parlors in the Westport area, asking about his tattoo. Two of the places had no information. At the third place, a tattoo artist named Greg looked at the tattoo for longer than either of the others had, and then said, "Where'd you get that?"

"I was hoping you could tell me!"

The guy grinned. "Lost weekend, huh?"

"I – Yeah, you could say that."

"Lemme think." Greg turned to a small refrigerator, pulled out a water pitcher, got two paper cups from a stack on top of the refrigerator, and put them on the counter between himself and Jim. He poured water into both cups and picked up one, saying, "Here's to hydration."

"I appreciate it," Jim said. "I've been walking all over Westport."

He drained the cup in two swallows. Greg seemed to be examining the tattoo patterns on the wall behind Jim closely. "Want more?"

"No, but thanks."

Greg drained his own cup. "What do you know about hunting?"

"You mean – like, deer hunting?"

"Or whatever." But that wasn't what Greg had meant at all, Jim could tell.

"Not too much. I thought this design had something to do with angels and devils, some kind of religious symbol."

"Might very well," Greg said with a smile. "I just haven't seen it myself. Good-lookin' tat, though. Nice work."

"Any idea who does good work and knows a lot of unusual tattoos?"

A customer came in and started browsing the walls. Greg looked over at him, looked back at Jim. "Mm – I knew a guy in Omaha, but he's retired. Y'know, you had a little too much fun one night, you wound up with some good ink instead of cuss words or the name of the wrong girl, I'd be happy and move on." He gave Jim a smile and switched his attention to the new customer. "See anything interesting?"

And that, clearly, was that.

It was dark now, but darkness and a weeknight weren't discouraging traffic to and from Westport's bars. Jim walked down Connecticut Avenue beside a thin trickle of traffic.

_ He knew something. He just won't tell me. Why? Tattoo artists deal with people who want tattoos of skulls with snakes coming out of the eyes. What could be so creepy or scary about this simple –_

_ Crap. I hope it's not a gang tattoo._

_ Just from what I know about me, I don't seem like a very likely gang member. Too old, too educated. But it could explain why I don't want to publicize my face. Trouble with police, trouble with members of other gangs –_

Something odd across the street. He slowed, tried to observe inconspicuously.

He was approaching a T-intersection, a narrow street on the other side of Connecticut that cut through to the next major street. This intersecting street was dark – the sides of buildings, not the fronts – and ran down a fairly steep hill, dropping away from the lights of Connecticut.

It was a guy on the other side of Connecticut, walking toward that intersecting street, that had distracted Jim. The guy had stopped suddenly, for no apparent reason, and was looking around, scanning the street. Jim tried to keep an eye on the other guy without being obvious about it, walking slowly, watching him over the roofs of passing cars.

The guy abruptly shifted from neutral to high, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets, hunching his shoulders as though to make them look bigger, and disappeared down the intersecting street, walking fast.

Jim felt his breath speed up, and suddenly the night went quiet. He surveyed the street, stepping into it, raising a hand to ward off an oncoming car – happily the driver was paying attention – following the guy down the slope of the dark street.

By the time he reached the side door of a closed business he'd already heard someone say in a high-pitched, pained voice, "That's all!"

"Not all!" The guy Jim had spotted had his back to Jim, half-crouched over a man on the ground. "Gimme the rest!" There was a thud as his arm moved sharply, and the victim cried out.

The mugger raised his hand for another blow. There was a gun in it. Jim dropped his bag and grabbed the mugger's wrist and forearm, bending the mugger's wrist so that the hand holding the gun pointed right at the mugger, and at the same time kicked the mugger's knee. The mugger yelled and dropped the gun, trying to swing around to face Jim, struck Jim in the face with his free hand. Jim gave him another knee kick and, as the mugger lost his balance, put him on his back, planting a boot on the mugger's throat.

The victim gasped, "We got the gun, son of a bitch, got the gun."

Jim looked over. The victim, a balding man with blood running down his face, was holding the gun in shaking hands, his finger on the trigger.

Nothing like being accidentally shot by the guy you just rescued. "Give the gun to me." Jim was panting but his voice was steady. "Call 911."

"No cops," the victim said. "Let's shoot him in both legs."

"Let's not," Jim said. "Point that thing at the ground, now. You – " addressing the mugger – "roll over, hands behind your head."

The mugger rolled over, but then lunged upward. Jim force him back down with a boot on his neck, but then there was a blinding flash and a ringing bang that seemed to numb his ear and echoed in the narrow alley. "Don't do that!" the victim yelled. "Stay down!"

Jim spun, grabbed the victim's gun arm, and forced it to the side and down. "Give that to me. Give it to me now."

By this time, of course, the mugger was running. He disappeared around the corner as the victim yelled, "Yeah, you run, you son of a bitch!"

Then his knees buckled and Jim felt his hand go weak. Jim took the gun from him easily, removed the magazine and pushed the slide, popping the chambered bullet into his hand as though he'd practiced doing that an hour ago. The victim sat on the sidewalk, back against the building. "He was – I thought he was gonna – "

Keeping an eye down the road in case the mugger returned, Jim went down on his haunches in front of the victim. "You could have a concussion. You need to get to an ER."

The victim focused on him. "What are you? A cop, military?"

"I'm not the one who's bleeding. Have you got a phone?"

The guy groped at his pockets. "Yeah, I think. Somewhere." He pulled a wad of bills out of an inside jacket pocket. "I should – Hey. Here." He pulled a hundred-dollar bill from the wad and gave it to Jim. "Here. Thanks."

Jim's breath caught at the small fortune. "Sure," he said, taking the bill. "Thanks. I could really use it."

"You on the street?"

"Pretty much. You've got to get to a hospital."

"I feel all right." The guy shifted, starting to stand.

"That doesn't always mean you are all right. You should get checked out."

"Yeah, OK." Now on his feet, the victim rubbed blood off of his forehead with the palm of his hand. Jim put the money in the snap pocket of his shirt, with the gunk-bedaubed paper towel, and picked up his bag.

"What are you? A vet?"

"I'll be honest with you, I don't really know."

The victim nodded. "Yeah, I knew another guy who came back pretty messed up. He was like you, though, you could count on him – Hey." He pointed at Jim. "You want a job? Or are you just kinda – staying out of things?"

"No. I mean, yeah, I could really use a job. The problem is, I haven't got any ID."

The other man flashed a grin. "No paperwork, no problem. I'm pissed at this guy, he should have more folks like you on board, this wouldn't have happened." He rubbed his forehead again. "My name's Mike."

"Jim."

"Hey, Jim. Let's go tell this guy he needs to hire a vet."

With surprising speed, Mike went back up the hill to Connecticut Street. Jim followed as Mike crossed the street to a set of shops and restaurants set on three sides around a small parking lot.

There was a break between two of the buildings where a steep staircase in three flights led down the other side of the hill. At the bottom of the hill, a street with a large parking lot beside it ran parallel to Connecticut up above.

It looked like a slice had been cut out of the hill to allow street access to the basement of one of the buildings on the top of the hill. Mike turned and walked between two concrete retaining walls, an eight-foot-wide passage lit only by a street light yards behind them and a single bulb ahead.

_Box canyon_, Jim thought, and shot frequent wary glances behind him. Mike, though, seemed completely relaxed, forging ahead in the dimness to a large metal door with the single bulb over it. A blue-and-silver sign on the door announced simply, "STORAGE."

Mike pressed his thumb against the downstroke of the R. Jim hadn't even seen the button; it was painted the same blue as the sign. A light went on next to a security camera mounted on the wall twelve feet up. Mike looked up into the camera with a disgusted expression, pointing at the blood on his face. Jim glanced up at the camera, then looked behind them again.

The camera light went out, and the metal door swung open just enough for a big guy to slip out and stand with them. He was wearing a black T-shirt and black slacks with an unbuttoned gray jacket. "Mike? What happened?"

"What do you think? Same thing that happened to Cheryl two weeks ago, and that guy before that. I been telling Len he needs more security. I want to talk to him."

The big guy looked at Jim, a quick threat appraisal. "OK, but he waits here. You know the rules."

"Yeah, and you know I've paid for like half the setup in there. Tell Len if he wants to keep a regular customer he'll talk to both of us. He can come out here if he's too paranoid to have us inside, it won't kill him."

"Who's this?"

"He's a vet. And he's the reason why a good customer isn't lying out there with his brains bashed in. Just get Len, would you, Tony? If he's scared, you can stand out here with him and look beefy."

One more look at Jim, which Jim returned with as unthreatening an expression as he could manage, and Tony went back in the metal door. There was a wall behind the door that prevented seeing into the room, but Jim could hear people talking and caught a whiff of cigarette smoke.

"What is this place?"

Mike scrunched up his face and patted the air as though calming an anxious jumping puppy. "Nothin' bad. Actually pretty nice. I mean, some guys bring their wives here, no shit."

Jim waited a moment more, got no more information, and looked down the passageway toward the street.

"Any cops come along, though," Mike said, "I'm here to check with Len about a couple pieces of furniture I'm storing here. And you – let's just keep it simple, I got in a little hassle, in one of the bars, you stepped in and helped out, you're just makin' sure I get back to my car OK. Got it?"

"Got it."

Mike grinned and clapped his arm, and they waited another minute before the door opened again. This time it was a skinny, pale guy wearing a nice suit with a silver tie. "Mike, come on. You know the rules about strangers."

"Seriously, Len?" Mike exploded. "That's the tack you're gonna take? You've had three muggings in like a month and you're gonna whine at me about the rules? You know who the bad strangers are? I'll tell you. You have your first big winning night in weeks, and some asshole damn near bashes your skull in a block away. That's a bad stranger, Len. This guy – " waving at Jim – "comes along, wraps the asshole up, sends him on his way, ten seconds flat. He's not a cop, he's, I dunno, Special Forces or something. That's a good stranger. Got the difference?"

Len had been watching Jim the whole time that Mike had been talking. Now he said, "Unless it was part of a sting to get in here."

Mike went silent for a moment, looking at Len in disgust. Then he said, "Come on over here," stood under the light bulb, and, when Len followed him, he grabbed Len's hand and put it right on the bloody goose egg on top of his head.

Len, startled in spite of himself, focused on Mike. "God, that's bad."

"No. Really? This isn't a cop doing a sting, Len. I was face to face with that psycho. He's a psycho. He liked hitting me with a gun, it was like the money was just an excuse for him to pound on people. I know this is that same psycho who hit Cheryl in the gut and told her if she didn't give him money, she'd never have kids. You got a problem here, Len. Unless you want to report it to the cops, which we both know you won't, you gotta get some more security. And this guy's good, and he needs a job."

Len looked back at Jim. "What's your name?"

"Jim Hunter."

"What's your story, Jim?"

"I don't really know. I've got some memory problems. And somewhere along the line, I lost all my ID." He smiled quickly. "Of course, if I had all kinds of great ID, you'd probably think the cops put it together, right?"

"Probably." Len didn't return the smile. "Where'd you learn to fight?"

Jim shrugged, opening his hands.

"He's a vet," Mike said insistently. "He saw some nasty shit and he blocked it out. Like Elijah, you remember him."

"If I give you a job," Len asked, "are you gonna remember to come in to work?"

"Yes. I've been testing myself. I retain new memories well. It's just, a lot of the old ones are gone."

Len looked at him with interest. "Somewhere along the line, you learned to talk pretty well."

"Apparently."

Len looked yards away, studying a car that drove past, then looked at Mike, then Jim. "You know what my place is?"

"Mike just told me it's a nice place."

"It's a storage facility."

"OK."

Len looked at Mike. "I could maybe hire him to hang around outside. I don't want him inside, but we could maybe hire him as a – a night guard for – "

He hesitated, and Jim said, "The smaller stuff. You're open at night, people come here to get jewelry or something they have stored, you want to make sure they get from the door to their cars safely."

Len raised his eyebrows a little. "Yeah. Exactly. Say nine to three, fifty bucks a night, cash."

Jim suddenly remembered that he had a deadline. If he hadn't regained his memory by five p.m. on Thursday, he was supposed to turn himself in at a hospital.

But that mugger needed to be stopped.

In his moment of hesitation, Mike said, "Come on, Len, not even ten bucks an hour?"

"You're real generous with my money, Mike."

"Out of my pocket into yours, Lenny. What the hell, ten bucks won't bankrupt you."

Len looked back at him. "Nine to three, sixty bucks. We'll work out a schedule tomorrow."

"Sounds great." Jim spoke promptly before Mike could demand more. "Thanks."

Len narrowed his eyes, surveying Jim. "Get him something in case cops wonder why he's hanging around the door, something that says 'Security' or – "

Jim dug into his bag and produced the grocery-store vest. "Something like this?"

Len laughed, one syllable. "You come prepared, huh? Yeah, maybe. But black, I think. Maybe a jacket that says 'Security' in reflective letters. Let's see what Jana can put together before nine tomorrow. He's about Lloyd's size, you think?"

"About," Mike said.

"OK," Len said. "We'll give it a try. No promises."

"I appreciate it," Jim said. "You know of a shelter or something around here? I could really use a shower."

Len and Mike looked at each other blankly.

"Maybe a motel? I've got some money, thanks to Mike."

"Places in Westport are a little more expensive than motels." Len pulled his wallet, flipped through bills, and handed Jim five twenties, asking Mike, "How much did you give him?"

"That'll cover it," Mike said blandly.

"Get a clean shirt, too."

"Right."

"You got a phone?"

"Not at the moment."

"Get a burner." Len pointed. "There's a gas station a few blocks that way that sells them."

"Thanks. I really appreciate this. I'll do a good job for you."

"Well. Mike's a pain in the ass, but he _is_ a good customer. I appreciate your helping him out. See you tomorrow at nine." Len gave a brisk nod to them both and punched the button on the door, which opened immediately.

Jim insisted on walking Mike to his car, and Mike gave him directions to the hotel. Jim told Mike to get to a hospital and get his head checked out.

Mike demurred. "I'm fine. And I've given Len enough trouble for one night."

"Cops don't have to come into it," Jim said, standing by Mike's car as Mike rested his hand on the door handle. "You had a fight with your girlfriend, she threw something metal at you. A bookend. You don't want to press charges against your girlfriend. For one thing, even if she is kinda crazy, you admit she has reasons for being mad at you. For another, you don't want your wife to find out about her."

"I'm not married."

"So you don't want your other girlfriend to find out. The point is, don't walk around with a head injury and then fall over dead in two days."

Mike grinned. "Man, I'd pay good money to know what you were."

"Me too," Jim said fervently.

But as Mike drove off, he wondered: _Would I?_

So far, what he knew about his abilities was that he could hack into computers, lie, and fight.

He supposed there were vocations where that combination of skills was helpful to humanity. But right off the bat, it sounded pretty damn dark.

On the other hand, he did have a sense of right and wrong. And the hard-wired sense of a deity being present – not real chatty, but present.

_If I'm a bad guy, wouldn't I try to dodge the sense of God's presence? Would I bother worrying about whether what I do – or did in the past – is right or wrong?_

_ On the other hand, if I'm a good guy, why am I so sure that if I tell my story and put my face out there, bad things happen to me?_

He worried without resolution until he saw the hotel's sign looming over the street. Then relaxation went through him. Whatever tomorrow held, tonight he was going to get clean. And sleep in a bed.

And he had a job. OK, he was being security for an illegal gambling place, but he'd be protecting people. That was something to look forward to.

.

The FBI suit was hanging in the closet in the Plaza hotel room. When Dean came out of the shower, dressed in pajama pants, Castiel had taken off his coat and suit jacket and was standing in front of the TV watching the news. "Anything?" Dean asked.

"Nothing likely sounding. I'll survey the internet while you sleep."

Dean nodded, sat heavily on the bed. He rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands in front of his mouth.

Castiel turned off the TV and went to stand beside him.

"Thirty-four hours since we heard from him," Dean said.

"Sam has been in very dangerous situations before and has survived them."

Dean just swallowed.

Then he sucked in a breath, looked up. "Tomorrow we look at that library security tape again, study everything about Lili Cabot that can be studied. And then it's time to start rousting the local demons."

Cas nodded. "And U.S. Marshal Ulrich has put out a BOLO on the Coronet?"

"Yeah, I did. Somebody must be keepin' it in a garage someplace. That car's too unusual for anyone to miss it if it were on the road."

"Then you've done everything you can do today. Tomorrow you'll have renewed energy for the search."

Dean nodded. After a moment he stood, peeled back the covers, and didn't so much lie on the bed as topple.

"Forgot to get cash today," he mumbled. "Don't lemme forget. Tomorrow."

He started to yawn and fell asleep in the middle of it.

Castiel turned out the light, sat in a chair across the room, opened the laptop so that its screen faced away from Dean, and began searching.


	3. Wednesday & Thursday

WEDNESDAY

Cas was putting on his trench coat when the door opened and Dean, wearing the suit but with the tie trailing out of a jacket pocket, burst into the hotel room. "Bank account's cleaned out."

"Sam?"

"He wouldn't do that to me. If he can withdraw money, he can get in touch. I tried to make a withdrawal, got the good news." Dean was getting his weapons bag out of the closet. "Marshal Ulrich started makin' calls and raisin' hell. You can only pull out $500 in one day, so I asked where withdrawals were made. One Monday afternoon from Kansas City, right from the same ATM where I was."

"She came here? Of course she did," Cas answered himself. "She came here to get Sam's weapons bag."

"Using the Coronet. She stole the bag and then pulled out as much from the account as she could. The account was cleaned out yesterday at seven p.m. by a withdrawal from an ATM in Lebanon, Kansas."

"She's at the bunker."

"The only way she can know about it is if she's got Sam with her. The only way she can get in is with his key."

"We'll formulate a plan along the way."

Cas started toward the door, but Dean raised a hand. "You're staying here. It's gonna take me about five hours to get there, and in case she comes back here, I don't want both of us wasting our time chasing her back and forth. You do what we were gonna do – study the security tape at the Linda Hall Library, find a nice quiet spot for demon interrogation. I'll call you when I get to the bunker, and later when I know what's going on."

"Be careful, Dean. Please." Cas' voice was urgent.

Dean looked into his eyes and smiled just a little as he pulled the car keys out of his pocket. "I'll have Sam call you when I've got him," and he was gone.

.

Jim slept late and luxuriantly, leaving the hotel room at the last possible moment before checkout time. After an inexpensive but hearty breakfast, he walked to the gas station and got a burner phone.

He found a consignment store selling a shirt that actually fit him pretty well, a solid dark green. The store had a used backpack that only cost three dollars, and he bought it happily. He was really tired of carrying around a ratty-looking grocery store bag inside a ratty-looking drugstore bag. He put his new shirt, as carefully as he could, into a side pocket of the backpack, where it would wrinkle but at least stay clean. Tonight he'd ask Len if he could keep the new shirt at the "storage facility."

It was a mile-and-a-half walk back to the Plaza Library, and he took a detour to return to the grocery store. He was going back on a diet of jerky, trail mix, and apples. The difference was that he bought more of them, and paid for them. He ate one of the apples and some trail mix for lunch, drinking from a brand-new bottle of water, as he sat on a bench in the big park near the Plaza Library.

He was eagerly anticipating the start of his job that night. It wasn't just the money, although of course he was looking forward to that. After his night in the hotel and his spending spree today, he was back down to less than ten dollars. But mostly, he was looking forward to being part of a team.

He hadn't realized how much that was a part of him. He hadn't minded being by himself too much the last couple of days. He'd figured he'd probably been by himself for a while, because it just didn't bother him. But helping Mike last night, hearing Mike talk to Len about people they both obviously knew – Elijah and Jana and Lloyd – struck a chord in him. He thought he'd had this at some point. In the military? In a gang? Just a normal life with co-workers and a family who relied on him?

He tried coming up with a memory, any memory, yet again, and yet again he couldn't. But the sense of teamwork being fulfilling was indelible.

He tried to think of any association he might have with the word "family" or "team." He almost hoped he didn't have a family; they'd have been frantic for the last couple of days. But again came the sense of danger if anyone found out who he was. If he did have a family, maybe they were better off without him.

Well, that line of thought had got depressing real fast. He shook himself metaphorically, stood, threw the apple core in a trash can, refilled the bottle at the water fountain, and headed toward the library. He wanted to see if he had any response to the question he'd sent verminmurder yesterday.

.

Cas was looking at the security tape in a small dark room at the Linda Hall Library. The camera in the Rare Book reading room was set high up on the wall in the front of the large room. It gave a view of two sets of long tables, two desks with computers behind those, and then, behind a low barrier of two sets of bookshelves, an even longer table and more computers. At the very back of the room you could just see the smoky glass wall that gave a glimpse into the Rare Books vault, long shelves featuring books hundreds of years old.

Sam was sitting at one of the front tables. A large fat volume, presumably _Monstrorum historia_, sat in front of him on two firm foam wedges that kept the book from falling completely open, which would strain the spine. Cas couldn't see which page he was looking at, but he could see that there was an illustration on one page. Sam made notes with the library-provided pencil and paper, nodding.

Behind him and across the room, Beau Yellen, the elderly scholar, was looking at a thinner volume and typing on one of the computers. Scott Anderson, the graduate student, greeted the cheery woman at the front desk as he put his backpack into a cubbyhole by her desk, first extracting the laptop he was obviously going to work with.

As Anderson walked toward the table on the other side of the room from Sam, he crossed paths with Lili Cabot, who had been standing with her back to the room looking into the vault. Now she was headed toward the front. She looked down as she passed Sam, and Cas paused the tape.

She was a pretty girl with long dark hair, dressed in black – or at least a color so dark it passed for black on the black-and-white security tape. Sam had his head turned, making notes, and didn't notice the girl – or if he did, he clearly wasn't bothered by her.

Cas studied the still image, making some mental notes, then re-started the tape. Lili walked toward the door as Sam looked back at the book. Lili pulled a cloth shoulder bag from one of the cubbyholes, as the woman at the front desk said something to her with a smile, and disappeared from the frame as she got to the door.

He wondered when Lili had entered the room, and was about to rewind the tape, when a sweet voice behind him said, "Excuse me, Marshal – is it Heifetz?"

Castiel looked around. "Yes."

"Mr. Gross said you might want to talk to me."

"You're the librarian who walked Sam McIntyre down to the Rare Book room."

"Yes. I was off yesterday, but they told me this morning you'd be coming back in today. You really think he's in some kind of danger?"

"We are concerned. Sometimes people in the Witness Protection program have a sudden panic and disappear, thinking that they can protect themselves better than we can protect them. They are wrong."

"I wonder why he came here to read _Monstrorum historia_? That seems odd, for someone panicked."

"It does," Cas said. "What did he say when he came in?"

"Just that he was looking forward to looking at the book. He didn't seem stressed. He showed me his ID, and I took him downstairs. That was pretty much all, the first time."

Cas' head lifted. "The first time?"

"Yes, before he came back in. You didn't – No, of course you wouldn't." She looked surprised. "When he came back, I think Larry and I were the only staff members in the main room. No one else would've seen him. And Larry didn't even talk to him. Yes, Mr. McIntyre left, said goodbye very pleasantly, and then he came back about an hour later."

"He wanted to look at the book again?"

"Yes, but Cindy had a meeting and there wasn't anyone else to staff the reading room at the time. I asked him if he could come back the next day, and he laughed in a kind of – strange way, and said something like, 'I don't see any reason why not.'"

Cas stood. "Did anything else seem strange about him?"

She made a little moue. "Not at the time. Now that I know what was going on with him, of course everything seems strange. He seemed a little confused. Not to a point that was alarming, just – Like, he had a smudge on his forehead and he didn't even seem to know it until I pointed it out."

"A smudge," Cas repeated. "What did it look like?"

"Mud, maybe? He said he fell asleep outside and hoped he didn't rub his face in anything disgusting, but it didn't look like that. It looked a little like the smudge of ash that some people get on their forehead for Lent, but it wasn't ash, it was thicker."

"Did you notice if it had a smell?"

She looked startled. "No."

"I assume he washed it off."

"Yes, went into the restroom to do that. Then he wanted to use one of the computers."

"He used a computer here?"

"Yes. He stayed there till closing – "

Cas was already moving toward the door. "Show me which one."

.

No door slamming this time. Dean entered the Men of Letters bunker almost silently at the top of the steps, gun pointed down toward the main floor, and closed the door behind him with a soft click.

He hadn't taken time to change out of the suit before leaving, but he'd shed the jacket, his shirt collar was open, and the shirt sleeves were rolled up, so he had some freedom of movement even in the dress shirt. Keeping his gaze moving, he descended the stairs to the War Room, searching it quickly, gun in a two-handed grip.

He raised his head and sniffed a little.

No one in the dining alcove or the kitchen. But someone had made an omelette with mushrooms and those little green onions Sam liked, and had left the pan and dishes just sitting there.

He cleared the kitchen, went into the main hall, looking under each long table, even behind the telescope. About halfway through he broke stride and mouthed a curse, when he saw that a katana and its rack were both missing.

He cleared the bedrooms and bathroom, one by one, cleared the computer room. Castiel had a room – just on general principles, he had no need for sleep or privacy – and the bed had been slept in last night.

By the time Dean had reached the storage room, he was so confident the intruder had moved on that, looking around, he felt free to swear out loud.

.

"Sam's not here," Dean said the instant that Cas answered his phone. "But she was. Had herself some dinner, did the Goldilocks thing and picked out your bed to sleep in, cleaned out the wall safe, and took everything she could carry."

"She has cursed objects?"

"Luckily, only two. She seems to like the stuff that has obvious value, and you know, a lot of times cursed objects don't look like much. She took a katana, some of the antique guns, the witch collar, the ebony mortar and pestle, the gold blade – that would be a bitch to replace – a lot of stuff like that. That inventory was a pain in the ass, but I'm glad Sam – "

His voice faded, and as Cas started to speak, Dean continued, "No sign that Sam ate or slept here. But that doesn't, that doesn't mean – She might just have him tied up in the Coronet."

"I have a lead," Cas said, and Dean sucked in a breath. "Sam came back into the library about an hour after he left. The only person he spoke to was a librarian who was gone when we came in yesterday. He asked to see the Aldrovandi book again, but the Rare Book reading room was closed at that point. The librarian says he seemed a little strange, though not enough to cause alarm. He had a smudge of something that looked like mud on his forehead, which he washed off in the bathroom. Then he asked to use one of the library's public-access computers. She told me which computer it was, and I researched the computer's history from two days ago."

"You – did?"

"I am not completely technologically ignorant, Dean."

"Yeah, I know, I just – Sorry – "

"The librarian assisted me," Cas added, and Dean snorted. "Sam first researched the Linda Hall Library and its location in Kansas City."

"Like – he didn't know?"

"He also researched missing persons and escaped criminals in this region; homeless shelters, soup kitchens, grocery stores, and convenience stores; and amnesia."

There was a pause. Then Dean said softly, "Damn."

"I don't understand something. If Sam has been stricken with amnesia, why did he not simply go to a hospital? Surely we'd have seen a story about an amnesiac man on the local news, or on the internet."

"There must be something left – some instincts, something. Because if you were raised by John Winchester, let me tell you, going to strangers for help when you don't know exactly the source of the problem is the last thing you do. You don't tell anyone anything about the family business. If you're injured, worse than you can fix it yourself, OK, you go to a hospital, but you don't let 'em put you to sleep unless you've got an ally in the room. If you're sick, you tough it out. If you're suicidal, you find something to kill and kill it instead. You never, never just show up at someone's door and say, 'I'm hurt, please help me.' Or 'I'm messed up.' Or 'I can't remember who I am, please show my picture around.' Because you might luck out and get help, or you might be opening yourself up to – ghouls, demons, who knows what."

After a moment, Castiel said, "I knew your biography, of course. But from time to time I forget how isolated you were. Humans are somewhat lonely creatures in any case, but your upbringing was – strikingly so."

There was a moment of silence before Dean said, "Probably a good thing. The memory of those Leviathans who went on a murder spree looking like us is still pretty raw. And we got a break, now everyone thinks we're dead, but if Sam's face was out there – " he swore. "Who'd get him first? The FBI or some demon who recognized him and pretended to be a friend? We've got to get him back, Cas. We need to find him first, then we can deal with whatever this Lili Cabot did to his memory."

"So we need to determine what Sam will do under these circumstances."

"Yeah, and we need – " Dean looked around the storage room, its pulled-out drawers and shelves with empty stretches. "Why give Sam amnesia? She did something to make Sam give her his keys and the password to the bank account, OK, we're dealing with some kind of supernatural thief, but then why the amnesia? Just to keep Sam from identifying her later?"

"I don't know. But as you say, our primary focus now needs to be on finding Sam. I will go to the places he researched while you're driving back."

"Got transportation?"

"I think a cab driver may be influenced to take me where I need to go."

"I bet. I'll be back ASAP. Keep in touch."

.

"If cops show up with a warrant, you're just night security, you need the boss's permission to let them in," Tony told Jim. "You call Len. You already put his number on your phone, right?"

"Right. When he gave me the jacket."

The jacket was a navy blue windbreaker, not chic at all, but someone had done a good job of gluing "SECURITY" in bright white letters across the back. Jim had the gun in the back of his waistband, and the jacket just covered it. Len had asked him a few friendly questions about the weapon, which Jim recognized as an attempt to establish that Jim understood how to handle a gun. Once Jim had passed that test, Len had turned him over to Tony for training.

Since Jim wasn't even going to be walking inside the building and wasn't encouraged to ask questions, the training was going pretty quickly. "If a customer walks up to the door and just asks to be let in, you tell 'em that management will be here tomorrow at ten if they want to store something. If they don't know to press the button and look up at the camera, they don't belong here."

"Got it."

"If they're on a phone call, tell 'em to wrap it up before they try to get in. No phones allowed in the club."

"Bet you get some pushback on that."

Tony looked wry. "Mostly from the card dealers. The customers – usually, if you ask 'em if they'd like to have an undercover cop taking video in there, they get the point. If they don't, they go out."

"Should I take the phone?"

"No. They hand it to me when they step inside, and I do a quick check with a hand-held metal detector. No guns allowed, either."

"If someone has one – "

"I ask for it politely, give it to Jana with the phone. She tends bar, and there's a locked cabinet behind there. She gives 'em a number for the phone or the gun. When they leave, she gives 'em to me, I give it back to the customer at the door."

"This is impressive."

Tony shrugged. "Len's nobody's fool. He pays taxes on the storage facility, has a corporate name for it and everything."

"And I'm sure he reports all of its income."

"I'm sure he does," Tony said with a grin. "He owns the business upstairs, too. He can go straight from one business to the other."

"What's the other business?"

"Vintage clothes. Jana actually manages that one, decides what to buy and how much to pay and who all works there, but Len owns it."

"I'd like to meet Jana. Store manager, bartender, and gun-check girl. That's versatility."

"I'll have her come out and say hi to you tomorrow. Get your phone out."

Jim did, and Tony gave Jim his own phone number and, by memory, Jana's. "If you have any questions, call her or me, don't bother Len. She's here Thursday through Saturday, I'm here Tuesday Wednesday Friday Saturday."

"And if I have a question on Sunday or Monday?"

"Ask Reggie, he's on the door those nights. But you'll have to use the door buzzer to talk to him, Len and Jana and me are the only ones with phones inside the club. But Reggie knows a lot."

"All right."

"What's your schedule?"

Jim smiled. "I don't really have one. I think Len's expecting that I'm going to come here for a couple of nights and then forget the place exists. Can't blame him."

"Must be weird. What do you remember?"

Jim hesitated. "Just enough to know that I'm not eager to have the police digging into my identity."

Tony nodded slowly. "Once you get some money together, Len knows a guy who can get you a birth certificate and driver's license."

"Great."

"Any troublemakers, take 'em down to the street there." Tony pointed down the passage between the retaining walls. "No yelling and fighting right outside the club door. If you need help getting it under control – " he pointed at the button on the door – "hit that three times real fast. That's a signal to me."

"What if you're not by the door?"

"Most of the time I am. But the button's connected to lights all over the club. If I see any of them flash, I head for the door. If I see any of them flash three times, I run."

"Sounds like a great setup."

Tony shrugged. "And along about now Len would say, 'Good security is important to a storage site,' but the hell with it. You know what's goin' on here."

"Looks like people walking in of their own free will and having a good time. Visiting the stuff they have stored."

Tony chuckled, then got serious again. "No drinking on the job. Or weed, or anything else that keeps you from being sharp. If you want a break, one punch on the button and tell me when you'll be back."

"OK."

"Anything else? I see Len gave you a chair." Tony pointed at a folding chair by the door.

"Yeah, Len thought that seeing a strange guy standing by the door might drive customers away. He thought if it's just a guy sitting by the door reading or talking on a phone, neither the cops nor the customers will pay much attention."

"Well, I think you're set, then. Wednesdays we get a little uptick in business, but it's nothin' like a weekend, so you got a couple days before things get challenging."

"Unless the friendly neighborhood mugger comes back."

"Yeah, son of a bitch. All the pains that Len has to take to keep this place hidden from the cops, and guys like that are running around loose." Tony shook his head. "I gotta get back inside. Hey, here's someone fishy. Make sure you give this guy a thorough pat-down."

The fat man walking toward the door laughed. "Yeah, I'm scary as hell. Who's the new guy?"

"Jim. Givin' us a little extra security outside the door."

"Good to meet you, Jim. Tony, get me in there, I'm feelin' lucky."

"Well, yeah, then, let the streak begin." Tony used a key to unlock the door, and the fat man pulled his phone out of his jacket just as the door closed behind them.

If every night went the way this Wednesday did, it would be the easiest money anyone had ever earned. Jim studied people openly as they started down the passage to the door, looked down at his new magazine (Smithsonian) as they neared, then looked up again and gave them a friendly smile just before they got to the door. Most of them smiled back, didn't say anything; one or two looked at him suspiciously but didn't say anything; and one guy, who sounded like maybe he'd hit a couple of Westport's bars before coming here, said cheerfully, "Hey, beautiful evening, isn't it?" He waved up at the camera, and before Jim could say anything he repeated "Beautiful!" as Tony opened the door.

Most of the clients were men coming by themselves, although there was one group of three guys and two male-female couples. But at midnight, Tony opened the door to let out a lone woman, who'd obviously been there even before Jim had reported for duty.

"Cheryl, this is Jim," Tony said. "He's gonna walk you to your car."

Jim jumped up as Cheryl said, "I hope it's not a lot of trouble."

"None at all. Where are you parked?"

"Up on Connecticut."

They started down the walkway to the sidewalk. Cheryl said – as though Jim had made a criticism – "I know, I shouldn't come here by myself."

"Well, it seems like a pretty nice place," Jim said, as though he'd even seen the inside.

"Oh, it is. I just meant – you're probably thinking a woman shouldn't go around by herself at night."

"Not thinking that. I mean, just because there are thugs out there, they shouldn't control your life."

"Thanks."

They reached the bottom of the three short flights of steps that led up to Connecticut. Cheryl was short and heavy and climbed slowly, gripping the railing. Jim stayed beside her, looking around and up ahead at a cluster of people laughing and talking outside a restaurant.

She paused at the top of the steps to take a breath, then proceeded. They passed by the cluster of people; one of the girls shot Jim a flirtatious look.

"I got robbed week before last. In the parking lot down there." She pointed back to the lot at the bottom of the hill. "Mike told me the same guy came after him last night, and you got rid of him."

Jim chuckled. "Mike walked me over to the, the storage place, and demanded that Len hire me right then and there. I really appreciated that, I needed the job."

"Well, they need you." They paused as a car went by, then began crossing the street. "Keep us degenerate gamblers safe."

Jim shot her a look. "You know, Mike mentioned that the mugger hit you in the gut. I don't think you need to be beating yourself up."

She laughed sharply. "Maybe you need to talk to God. Feels like he's the one beating me up. You have your first big win in weeks, next thing you know, someone's slamming a gun in your stomach and taking it all away. I definitely got the feeling that somebody up there was showing disapproval."

"Then – " Jim began, but stopped himself.

"Then why do I come back?"

"No, none of my business."

"And here's my car anyway. Saved by the bell."

They rounded the front of her big, scratched-up, elderly car, and Jim checked the back seat quickly as Cheryl got in the driver's seat. She pulled a five out of her purse and extended it to him, but Jim waved it off. "No, this is part of my job. But thanks."

"Well, thank you. Really. I wish they had twenty of you."

Jim laughed. "I think twenty of the same guy milling around might attract more attention than Len would want."

"Yeah, probably." She pulled the heavy door shut with a little assist from him, and the engine started reluctantly, with a grinding roar.

Jim tapped on the window, and Cheryl rolled it down.

"Dumb question," he said. "Do you remember what weeknight it was when the guy attacked you?"

"Do I remember? Are you kidding? It was two weeks ago tonight. I didn't come back here for a week. Why?" she asked suddenly. "Are you being a detective?"

He grinned. "Probably not."

"I should've called the cops. I just – I didn't know how to explain the money, and I don't want them finding Len's place and shutting it down."

"Understood."

"If you find him, punch him in the gut for me, would you?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, like a soldier receiving an order. Cheryl smiled and began cranking the wheel of the car, so he got back up onto the curb.

He remembered the ferocity of the mugger he'd stopped last night, how hard he'd hit Mike. Like Mike, he was sure that this was the same guy who would hit a short scared woman in the gut, using more force than he'd have ever needed, just because – why? It made him feel tough? To beat up on fat women and middle-aged men?

He shook his head and began walking back to the club. The people who went to Len's seemed to be repeat customers, addicts even, probably thinking their odds were better at Len's than at the big legal casinos on the river, or maybe just not wanting to take the extra 15 or 20 minutes to make the trip. Whatever the reason, neither Mike nor Cheryl had reported the attacks to police, and Len sure as hell wouldn't. And if the police weren't told about this guy, there wasn't much they could do.

_Which leaves it up to me to do something about him._

What he'd do, Jim didn't know. He just knew that he couldn't let the jerk keep terrorizing people unchecked.

_And taking on that project means I put off the deadline to turn myself in. How convenient for me!_

Well, yes. He was still dreading the consequences of putting his face out in public. But that wasn't the reason for the project. He could postpone turning himself in at a hospital for any number of reasons.

But this mugger really needed to be caught and stopped. And somehow Jim was sure he was capable of doing that.

.

THURSDAY

Sitting in the Plaza Library, Jim stared at the computer. He had a response from verminmurder.

"I heard that Greg at Spirit Board Tattoo can help. Only one I know personally does tattoos off the books, but she's good, and she'll be in your area this weekend. Tanya, Amazing Amulets, at the Psychic Fair. Good practice to get it tattooed. Stay safe."

He knew that Greg had known more about that tattoo than he'd let on. Damn it, what was the big secret?

In what field of endeavor was it "good practice" to get an anti-angel (or anti-demon, he still wasn't sure which) symbol tattooed on you?

Well, the field where you routinely fight against angels and demons, obviously. He laughed quietly.

On the other hand –

He didn't have any problem with believing that angels and demons could exist. But grown men providing anti-demon "salt shooters" on the internet and being secretive about occult tattoos just seemed kind of pathetic.

But there were scars all over him. Clearly he'd fought someone, or something, or some things, sometime.

"What do you know about hunting?" Greg had asked him.

And for some reason, Jim had picked Hunter as a last name for himself.

In the next day or two, sometime when Spirit Board Tattoo was open, Jim was going to stride right into the place, look Greg in the eye, and say, "Why didn't you tell me it was good hunting practice to get this tat that I have?" See what reaction that got.

He sent a quick note of thanks to verminmurder, then researched "demon hunting." Most of the results were literary or religious analyses written by people who didn't claim to be hunters themselves. Most of those who did sounded either like teenagers dying for attention or adults with a loose grasp on reality.

But every once in a while, on a New-Agey kind of website or in the exchange of comments after an article, there would be a paragraph or two that sounded like Greg or verminmurder – quiet, low-key to the point of cryptic, and in a weird way professional.

Yes, he was going to talk to Greg again. And he looked up "Psychic Fair Kansas City," so he could see Tanya on Saturday. He wanted to know what the hell he'd got himself into.

.

The building was the last setting anyone would expect for violence, which made it perfect. It was a greenskeeping building at a suburban golf course – near the edge of the course, but still well away from the street. The walls were stone, blocked noise well. There were security cameras to protect the equipment inside, but a murmur by Castiel had taken care of that.

"And that's another thing about this gal, she knows how to shut off security cams. She did it outside the library, but for some reason not in the reading room. We need to figure out how she's doing that." Dean had been using the spray paint to outline a devil's trap on the floor as he said that.

"A demon could," Castiel had replied, holding the lantern flashlight steady. "An angel, of course. Or a witch, if she knew the right spell."

Dean had distinctly growled.

Now the demon tied to the chair inside the devil's trap made a somewhat similar sound. There were streaks like acid burns on his face and arms where holy water had hit him over and over. Dean still had a full jug of it sitting on the floor beside him. Castiel was reciting the exorcism ritual – not that Dean couldn't, but they'd learned that demons seriously hated being sent back to Hell by an angel.

"Get it over with!" the creature bellowed, his eyes black from rim to rim. He was possessing a muscular young black guy of about thirty, dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. "Get it over with, you scumbag sadist lowlifes!"

"But that wouldn't be any fun," Dean said in a calm, explanatory tone. Then he threw more holy water, and the demon twisted his head away as Castiel said, "Deus Israhel ipse truderit virtutem et fortitudinem plebi Suae."

The demon screamed, fighting pain, fighting the forces driving it out of the body. "I told you where he is!"

"But Sam wasn't there. So we need to ask again." Dean's tone was still utterly rational.

"So he moved on! Can I help it if he moves around? I told you the truth about what I knew!"

"Cas?" Dean asked.

"I sense no truth in him." Cas' voice was as calm as Dean's.

Dean threw some more holy water and the demon shrieked again. "Come on, is it really worth this to protect some other demon, or some witch who'd sell you out in a second? We're not saying you know exactly where Sam is. We're saying you know something, someone. You've heard a rumor. There's a new girl in town. Something. Tell us. Or we'll just do what we did before – bring you right up to the verge of exorcism while we burn you, and then stop it and start all over again." He pulled the demon-killing knife out of the sheath under his jacket. "Maybe we'll throw some carving into the mix this time."

"I. Don't. Know. Anything!" the demon screamed, and Dean shook his head.

"Good thing our schedules are clear for the next week or two. Cas, start over again."

"Benedictus Deus," Cas said, and Dean looked at him sharply. "Gloria Patri."

The demon screamed a last time, throwing the chair backward onto the floor, a funnel of black smoke pouring from its mouth and settling through the tiny cracks in the concrete floor.

Dean was incredulous. "Cas, what the hell?"

"He knew nothing. Further torture would have been pointless."

"We don't know that."

"Yes. We do."

"Woulda made me feel better."

"Only in the short term," Castiel said. "In the long term it would have damaged you, and you know it."

"You know what, maybe – "

"The host is alive," Cas said suddenly, urgently. Tossing the lantern to Dean, he rushed over and knelt beside the man tied to the chair.

"You're kidding me." Dean moved over, lighting the scene as Cas placed his hands on the victim's head and gut.

"The demon has used the body with great carelessness," Cas said, his focus on the man's face. "He would have been dead in a matter of hours. Bones are broken, organs – "

The man's eyes popped wide open and he whimpered.

"I'm healing your body," Cas said. "We will sit you upright when your body can withstand that."

Dean, recovering from his astonishment, opened the padlock that held the chain in place around the man's body and the chair.

"Kill me," the man whispered to Cas, his eyes filling with tears. "Don't let me be alive and see everything. I know you can live in me even if I'm dead. Please. Just let me go."

"I don't understand – "

"He thinks you're a demon, Cas." Dean couldn't help but sound a little amused.

"I am not a demon. We have exorcised the demon from you, and we will assist you in assuring that this will never happen to you again."

The man swallowed, nodded his head, began shivering.

Cas sat the chair upright. The man doubled over and began having dry heaves. Dean took the chain away gently, leaving the lantern on the floor.

"Don't want to live," the man whispered. "It's all sick. It's all sick."

"Listen to me," Cas said in his most compelling voice. "Look into my eyes and listen to me. You have psychological damage from the demon's possession. This is usual, but unfortunately I cannot heal that quickly. You will require time, and human assistance, and effort on your own behalf. But it will be worth it. The world is not the foul hellhole it appears to be from a demon's perspective. There are beautiful things in it. There are good people in it, and you can be one of them. But you must resist the temptation to die long enough to assist your doctors. Promise me that you will do that."

Staring into Cas' eyes, the man, after a moment, nodded. "Try." He cleared his throat. "I'll try."

Seeing the man's wallet edging out of his back pocket, Dean plucked it out and looked at the driver's license inside. "Are you Matthew Ferguson? Or did the demon have phony ID made?"

The man stared at him blankly for a moment. Then, sounding a little astonished, "I am. I'm Matt Ferguson."

"Do you have family in town, Matt?"

Another blank look. Then, as if he weren't sure he should say it, "Wife."

Dean had been looking through the wallet, and now he pulled out a picture of Matt with a pretty woman. "This her?"

Matt's eyes widened with a touch of hope. "Yes. Linda."

"Did the demon do anything to her?"

Ferguson choked, looked at Dean, shook his head. "Oh God. What if it had?"

"Got a phone?"

Ferguson blinked, reached for his other back pocket as though it hurt his shoulder, handed a phone to Dean. Dean found "Linda" in the contacts and made the call.

After a moment, "No ma'am, this isn't Mr. Ferguson. Are you Linda Ferguson? – No, he's not dead, but something's happened to him. A couple of our plain-clothes detectives found him wandering around in a state of shock. He appears to – They're taking him to Overland Park Regional. Can you meet – Fifteen minutes. Yes, ma'am. Just doing our jobs. Glad to help."

He disconnected and handed the phone and wallet to Ferguson with a smile. "She is really eager to see you. We're going to have to move if we're going to beat her there. Can you walk?"

Matt leaned on Cas' shoulder. Dean scooped the chain, holy water, and lantern into a duffel bag, hooked the folding chair over his arm, and opened the door.

Ferguson fell asleep as soon as he slid into the Impala's back seat, but Cas sat beside him in case he woke in a panic.

"He has a difficult road ahead of him, but I believe he will recover," Cas said as the car sped down Antioch Road.

Dean looked at him in the rear-view mirror with a slight smile. "Every once in a while, man."

"Indeed."

Dean looked back at the road, and his smile faded. "Wish Sam was here."

.

A skinny guy with shaggy black hair, maybe 30, slipped out the door of the club and said, "Are you Jim?"

Jim put down his magazine. "Yeah, can I help you?"

"Mike said you wanted to talk to me when I was leaving, but I shouldn't tell anyone else I was doing it. I'm Aaron."

"Yeah, Aaron, thanks." Jim jumped up. "I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about the time you were mugged."

Aaron got a funny look on his face. "Are you a cop?"

"No. But I want to stop the guy who's doing this."

"You're gonna do it yourself? Are you gonna get my money back?"

"Probably not. But wouldn't you like to see the guy who mugged you get stopped?"

"You don't need to worry about me," Aaron declaimed.

Inwardly, Jim sighed. Chest-beating. He bowed his head a little, opened his hand. "OK. But this is the same guy who hit a woman in the gut to take her money. If we could stop him, that'd be something worth doing, wouldn't it?"

"I suppose. Why all the secrecy?"

"Well, I don't want to act like I'm going to run right out and catch the guy, and then fall on my ass. But I have a couple of ideas. If you could help me out, fill me in on his MO, we might be able to do something about this animal."

"Well – Mike said you did OK against the guy. Even if you didn't catch him."

"Mike's a good guy. He didn't deserve to get cold-cocked like that."

"No. He didn't." Aaron studied Jim's face for a moment. "So, what's the question?"

"I don't want to plant any ideas, so can you just tell me about what happened with you?"

"Not with a lot of enthusiasm." Aaron glanced to one side, looked back at Jim. "Well, let's see. The night was goin' great up till then. Saturday night in Westport, but I still got a parking place just a couple blocks away from Kelly's. Girl at Kelly's gave me her phone number. I won five hundred dollars. I was headed back to the car – "

"Where was the car?"

"Behind one of the restaurants near Westport Road. Why, did Mike get hit there too?"

"No, different place. So you were near your car?"

"Yeah. This guy comes walking up fast, thought he was late to work or something, didn't realize until he pulled the gun what was going on."

"What did he say?"

"I don't know, man, 'Gimme the money' or something. I was focused on the damn gun. I was, like, out of it for a moment, staring, and the asshole – " Aaron took a breath – "slams the barrel into my gut. I swear to God, I thought he'd shot me. I doubled over and fell down and the next thing I remember, I'm tryin' to give him the money but it's like my hands won't work. He says, 'Pick it up, give it to me, gimme the rest – " Aaron shrugged. "Guess I must've given it to him. All I remember is, he hit me on the head with the gun, and by the time I could move, he was gone."

Jim nodded. "Did you call the police?"

"No. I don't like cops."

_But you don't mind guys who go around pistol-whipping people even after they get money? _

"You want, like, a description?"

"No," Jim said. "I saw him."

"That's good. 'Cause outside of, he's got a hand that can hold a gun, I wouldn't have much for you."

Jim laughed dryly. "So, you doin' OK now? The head and everything?"

"And everything. I took care of business."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, that guy's gonna be sorry if he comes after me again."

"You got a gun?"

"Just – he's gonna be sorry, that's all."

"Mind if I take a look? Maybe I can give you a couple of tips."

"Why do you need mine to give tips? You don't have your own?"

_OK, what will make Aaron want to show off his own gun?_ "Yeah, I do. Nice little .22, compact but gets the job done."

"I suppose. I wanted something with more stopping power."

"Gotta admit, I'd be interested in something like that. What is it, a .44?"

"Not exactly. But it'll do a job on anyone who messes with you."

Aaron pulled the gun from his back, under his jacket, and showed it to Jim – held in an open hand, but still with the barrel pointed at Jim.

"Mind not pointing it this way?" Starting by pushing the barrel gently aside, Jim closed his hand around the gun and took it, trying to forestall Aaron's objections by saying, "Yeah, that's a nice piece, I can see why you went for it. Safety off, bullet in the chamber. You're ready to go."

"Damn right."

"Tell you the truth," Jim said as though confessing weakness, "I'm not crazy about these things." Deftly he ejected the magazine and the chambered bullet while saying, "But some practice could come in handy, in case I do identify him and he wants a fight. So would you mind, if I act like the mugger, you show me how you deal with the guy?"

He handed the gun back to Aaron, placing the magazine on the ground and taking a couple of steps back. Aaron looked put out at having the magazine removed, but after a moment he nodded and put the pistol back in his waistband.

Jim kept his voice low. "Hey, you. Gimme the money."

"Let me get my wallet," Aaron said.

He fumbled, groping under his jacket, obviously at his waistband and not near a pocket. Jim closed the gap between them in two steps, grabbed Aaron's arm, shoved it further behind Aaron, and kicked Aaron's foot out from under him. The gun, still behind Aaron, clicked as Aaron slid down Jim's leg and sat hard on the ground.

"OK, you just shot yourself," Jim said.

Aaron swore, jumping to his feet, grabbing the magazine from off the ground.

"And that's the best-case scenario. Worst-case scenario, the mugger's already armed, like he was last time, and the moment you reach under your jacket, he drops you."

"I'll practice," Aaron mumbled, glaring at Jim while he replaced the magazine with shaking fingers.

"Classes. Take classes from someone who knows."

"Whatever." Aaron stormed off.

_Who did I take classes from?_ Jim wondered. _Who taught me?_

Question for another time. Tomorrow, he was planning to do something about the mugger. Saturday, he was going to talk to Greg, and to Tanya at the Psychic Fair – which, happily but not surprisingly, would be held in Westport.

"Miles to go before I sleep," he murmured, and wondered where he'd been when he'd learned that.

He went to the end of the walkway. There were a couple of cars passing on the street, but no pedestrians at the moment. Aaron was out of sight. Someone on the steps leading to the top of the hill laughed at something her companion said.

Jim swept the street with his gaze, then went back to his chair at the door.


	4. Friday

FRIDAY

When Castiel returned to the hotel room, Dean had the weapons bag and his open duffel on the bed, and was throwing a change of clothes into the latter. "You have a lead."

"I do," Dean said. "And angelic upper management says – "

Cas shook his head. "They acknowledge that Sam's disappearance is a problem. They do not believe that it ranks as a high-priority problem for them. They reminded me that I was the one who placed sigils on your ribs, specifically to prevent them from finding either of you."

Dean gave him a sardonic grin and thumbs-up. "Continuing their streak of sounding like bitchy in-laws."

Cas chuckled. "Where are we going?"

"You're going to stay here and keep looking. I'm going to Aurora, Illinois."

"What's in Aurora?" Cas asked, as Dean went into the bathroom.

"A guy who runs a website called Curios and Rarities. I found the katana from the bunker for sale there."

"You're sure it's the same one?"

"Unless there's another one with a brass Men of Letters symbol on the base." Dean came back out of the bathroom with a Dopp kit. "He usually only does business at arm's length, but I've got him convinced that I'm a buyer who'll pay premium if I can look at the item and authenticate it personally." He tossed the Dopp kit into the duffel and zipped the duffel closed. "I've also got him convinced I've got more money than sense and he can sell me more items at a premium."

"What's the plan?" Cas asked quietly.

"The plan is, I convince him to tell me who he got the katana from and how to get hold of her."

"I'm going with you."

"And if Sam pops up on the local news? We need someone to get to him fast, before the FBI or demons."

"Then I'll meet with the seller. You stay here."

Dean had begun picking up the bags, but he put them back down on the bed and looked at Cas levelly. "You think I'm just going alone so I'll be free to pummel and torture."

"Dean, if the seller is human – "

"There's a line. I know. But we're not the only ones involved now. There was a story on the internet this morning about a highway patrol officer who radioed for help yesterday from a rural area south of Hastings, Nebraska. He remembered how to work the police-band radio in the car, but he couldn't remember anything about himself. He assumed, because of the uniform and the car, that he was Highway Patrol, but he didn't know who he was, if he had a family, what he was supposed to be doing – or what he'd just done."

"He'd spotted the Coronet and stopped Lili Cabot."

"The car's dashcam was screwed up and his sidearm was gone. He's in a hospital now, getting tests. Physically, he's OK. But he doesn't recognize his wife or his seven-year-old son."

Castiel shook his head.

"My guess is, she's done this to other people too. And she's done it to Sam. She's crossed _my_ line, and so has anyone who helps her."

"This man may be simply a dupe, a fence. He may not know what she does to other people."

"Well, he'd better know something," Dean said, grabbing the bags and heading for the door.

But in the open doorway, he paused. "I'll keep in touch," he said in a more pacific tone, and left.

.

The woman behind the counter was attractive, long-haired, wearing a 1950s-era sundress that revealed the tattoo sleeve on her right arm. "Hi, can I help you?"

"I'd like to see Len," Jim said, smiling at a couple of young female customers who were smiling at him.

The woman's face darkened, just slightly. "I can help you, I'm the manager."

"Jana? Hey, it's a pleasure to meet you. Can you just tell Len that Jim from downstairs wants to talk to him?"

She looked at his expression for a moment, looked at the customers, then disappeared through a door behind the counter.

In half a minute, Len came out the same door, followed by Jana. His face was none too pleased. "Jim?"

"Yes, sir. I wanted to ask a question about the storage facility."

Len studied him for a moment, then said, "Come on back."

The office was small, and the crowding of furniture belied its essential organization. There were no files or ledgers sitting in plain sight, just a couple of filing cabinets – doubtless locked – and a computer on the desk.

Len closed the door and said, "Open your shirt."

After a moment's surprise, Jim complied. He lifted the shirt and turned so that Len could see his chest and back. "I'm not wearing a wire."

"OK." Len looked around his office as if he suspected a bug had been planted. "What's this about?"

"It's about the problem Mike brought you a few days ago."

Len looked at him for a moment. "Let's take a walk."

Once they were on the sidewalk, going past a solid line of cars parked at the curb, Len said, "You picked up something about the mugger?"

"Not so much picked up as deduced, and I may be full of it," Jim said. He kept his tone low, following Len's example. "But I think I have a plan that could catch him in the next day or two, if you could help."

"Help how?"

"Can you arrange the odds in the club?"

Len stopped and glared, but his voice was barely above a whisper. "I run honest businesses."

"I'm sure you do," Jim said calmly. "I'm just wondering if it would be possible, if you could arrange for someone to win five hundred dollars or more?"

"Even if I could, how would the mugger – "

He stopped again, looked at Jim sharply. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"I'm sure it's occurred to you."

Len shot an irate look at the hair salon across the street, not that they'd done anything, and his jaw muscles flickered.

After a moment he said, "It hasn't, you know. It really, it hadn't. Crap." He looked at Jim sharply. "Who?"

"We can find out. If you can arrange for someone – " pause as a woman passed them on the sidewalk – "to have some good luck."

Len drew and released a breath, started walking again. "We have a couple of machines. Women like them. They can be adjusted to pay out pretty good. But I don't want to set 'em like that forever."

"If this doesn't work today or tomorrow, put 'em back the way they were. But I think you should keep trying it on and off for the next couple weeks."

"Great."

"Ideally, of course, you'd turn the whole thing over to the police."

"Ideally for who?"

"But if you're not going to do that, we can at least make it so that he won't be bothering your own customers anymore."

Len nodded.

Waiting for a college-age guy to pass, Jim said, "Do you know someplace near here where I could get handcuffs or zip ties?"

Len stopped again, shook his head – not so much in response to Jim's question, obviously, as in disgust at the whole situation.

Then he turned and started back the way they'd come. "I might have something at the office."

.

"I'm at a motel just outside Chicago," Dean told Castiel. "I'm meeting Warren, the Curios and Rarities guy, at a rental house he owns tomorrow at ten a.m. Where are you?"

"In downtown Kansas City, checking the homeless shelters again. I think that tomorrow I'll try a slightly different tack."

"Try anything. What is it?"

"I'm going to assume that, even if Sam has lost his memory, he still retains his essential personality. This is not always the case with amnesiacs. But in the few cases of supernaturally induced amnesia I've run across before, the victims remained the same person that they were before possession, or whatever the cause of the amnesia was. So tomorrow, I'm going to search in a two-mile radius around the Linda Hall Library and look for Sam in bookstores, other libraries, museums – places that would attract the Sam we know."

"Good thinking. Flash the badge, show his picture. If you see an occult shop, try that too. Sam knows a lot about the stuff, mostly of course because it's useful in our line of work, but also I think he's just interested in it."

"I'll do that."

"I'll call you right before the meet, when Warren gives me the exact address, and right afterward."

"Good luck."

"You too."

.

Maybe, as Len had said, women were especially fond of the slot machines, but the customer who rolled through the club door right after Len called Jim to say, "Coming out now," was a man. A happy and slightly tipsy man.

"Hey, there!" the guy said cheerfully, thrusting a twenty at Jim. "You're doin' a great job. Keep it up."

"Thank you very much, sir." Jim raised his voice just a bit. "Very generous."

He didn't know if the mugger was lying in wait – he had deliberately avoided scouting the walkway entry that night. He sat in his chair, holding up a magazine, his profile to the walkway, his head tilted just enough so that he could see the walkway entrance out of the corner of his eye.

The happy winner turned left at the end of the retaining walls and disappeared from view.

A moment later, a man the size and shape of the mugger darted across the walkway entrance, looking down at the door quickly. Obviously he'd been told there was added security.

When the mugger passed Jim stood. The door opened. "Hey, Jim, just a thought – " Tony began.

"Nature calls. Back in a minute," Jim said, and hurried down the walkway.

The happy winner had had to park about two blocks away, on an intersecting street in front of closed businesses. The mugger was catching up to him. Jim looked around as a car drove by. He lucked out – no other cars, no pedestrians, and no question about whether the guy ahead was the same one who'd attacked Mike. Jim put on a burst of speed.

The mugger turned at the sound of footsteps, but Jim was on him before he had a chance to react. Jim slammed a fist into his solar plexus, grabbed one arm and took him down, snarling, "Hands where I can see 'em! Right now!"

He knelt on the mugger's back. The guy's body spasmed with resistance, but then Jim reached under the mugger's jacket, got his gun, and pressed it to the back of his head. "Don't give us any trouble, punk," he said.

"Us?" The mugger flailed, looking around, trying to see the second guy. Jim pulled the handcuffs Len had provided out of a jacket pocket with his left hand, forcing the mugger's face to the pavement, and, with the gun in his right hand, said, "Cuff him, Bill."

"I didn't do anything!" the mugger said. "What the hell, you can't arrest somebody walking down the street!"

The happy winner continued toward his car unaware. Jim slapped the cuffs around one of the mugger's wrists, gave that arm a hard yank that made the mugger grunt in pain, and put the gun down by the mugger's knee long enough to drag the mugger's other arm back and cuff that wrist as well.

He grabbed the gun again, got off the mugger's back, and seized one of his arms, pulling upward. "On your feet. Walk."

On his knees, the mugger looked up past the gun at Jim's face. "Hey! You're that guy! You're not a cop!"

"Never said I was," Jim said. He yanked up on the mugger's arm until he was forced to stand. Looking around, Jim put the gun under his own jacket but pressed it to the mugger's side, standing next to him. "Walk, keep your mouth shut, and the handcuffs are the worst thing that'll happen to you tonight."

Jim let out a little sigh of relief when they got back into the passageway between the retaining walls, removed from the street and streetlights. When they reached the door he indicated the ground and said, "Sit," and the mugger did, dropping down with difficulty. Jim pulled a zip-tie out of his jacket and tied the mugger's ankles together. He met with surprisingly little resistance, even when he patted the mugger down, found his phone, and took it away.

Putting the mugger's gun on the chair, Jim stood between his captive and the chair while he looked over the phone. "No password? I'd think you of all people would be more security conscious."

"Screw you."

Jim smiled and started looking through the contacts. After a moment he looked up. "Only the initial. Very subtle."

The mugger said two more syllables.

Putting the other phone in his jacket, Jim pulled his own phone and called Len inside the club. "This is Jim. Got him, and you can question him without his running away. But just in case he tries something interesting, better bring Tony out too."

He put his own phone away, and was holding the mugger's gun and phone when Len and Tony joined them at the door. Tony left the door a little ajar, canting an ear toward it.

"He hasn't said anything yet, except some swearing," Jim began, and was interrupted by a sharp sound from Len as a customer started down the walkway.

Jim dropped to his knees and said, "OK, don't try to stand up yet, we're getting you some help," as he held the gun to the mugger's side, out of sight of the customer. Len picked up on it in a flash, walking briskly to the customer. They heard him murmur something about " – took a hard fall, trying to avoid a lawsuit – " and, pulling money from his pocket, "Go have a drink someplace and come back in twenty minutes or so."

"Anything I can do?" the customer asked.

"No, but thanks."

"Hope he's OK," the customer said.

As he started away, Jim stood and said in a low tone to Tony, "Stay close to Len."

Tony cast him an odd look, but by then Len was back, and Tony took a step over to him as Jim said, "So like I say, the guy hasn't said a word. But I talked to the three mugging victims, and it struck me that they were all attacked on nights when they had a big win. Of course, maybe this guy might just be lucky, the way he picks his victims, but I don't think anyone's that lucky. We know he wasn't in the club himself to see who won – I saw him approaching Mike that night, and he was coming from a different direction. So someone in the club was alerting that guy when someone was leaving with a lot of money, probably describing them. If the winner had mentioned where he was parked, someone would tell the mugger that too. Well – " Jim shrugged – "the only people in the club with phones are Tony and Jana – " he leveled his gaze – "and you, Len."

Tony cursed. "You've known Len for what, three days or something, you think he'd do this, you ungrateful jerk?"

Jim clicked the Contacts icon on the phone he held. "Well, this is the mugger's phone. So if it calls Len – "

He hit the contact labeled simply "T," and Tony's phone rang.

Len grabbed Tony's arm. "Talk about ungrateful – "

With panic speed, Tony threw off Len's hand, pushed him into Jim, and ran into the club, slamming the door. Jim threw himself at the door, but it was locked.

Len pulled a key out of his pocket. "He'll be going upstairs, out through the store," he said, opening the club's door.

Jim ran down the walkway, pocketing the phone and gun on the fly, turned left on the sidewalk and again to the steps up to the hill, taking them two at a time. He reached the stores at the top of the hill just in time to see Tony a few yards away on the other side of the street, getting into a car. Carried by his own momentum, Jim kept running past a canoodling couple, but Tony started the car just as Jim reached the curb. Tony made a sharp U-turn across the road that made two other drivers come to screeching halts, laying on their horns, and disappeared down the same cross-street where Mike had been attacked on Tuesday night.

Len rushed out of the shop's door, looked at Jim, looked at the taillights disappearing down the hill of the cross street, and swore violently, startling the couple.

Jim drew in a breath. "Better see to – Better get back."

He turned and went back down the steps, and after a moment, Len followed.

The mugger, in the minute they'd been gone, had managed to struggle to his feet and was hopping down the walkway. Jim just grabbed him by his jacket collar, pulling him off balance, and dragged him back to the club door, his feet and then his rear end scraping across the concrete.

Jim dropped the guy and turned to Len. "I know you don't want to call the cops – "

"Damn right."

"— but this guy's a menace. I thought of something. What if Mike, or Cheryl, report this guy? Say, he was lurking outside the storage facility, I tried to get rid of him, Mike or Cheryl came by to get something they have in there and recognized him. He gave me a fight, we got him wrapped up, they report that he's the one who mugged them."

"And then this asshole says, I want a plea deal, want to hear about gambling right over there?" Len gave the mugger a vicious kick in the ribs. The mugger gasped in pain and swore.

"Why would they believe him? Guaranteed he's got a rap sheet you could paper a room with. Why would they believe a thug trying to get away with an attack?'

"Because they will, that's all. They get the thug and they get me. Twofer, as far as they're concerned." Len kicked the mugger again. "How long, asshole?"

"How long what, asshole?"

Len went still for a moment, then turned and banged the button on the door three times. The camera light overhead went on, and Jana was at the door in seconds.

"If anyone wants to leave, take 'em out through the store," Len said. "I'll be back in a minute, and then you stay upstairs and I'll handle the club. We'll take 'em out that way for – a while."

Jana looked at the bound mugger on the ground; at Jim, at Len; nodded once; and closed the door.

Len turned to Jim. "Did you know it was Tony?"

"I was pretty sure."

"How?"

"The inside man had to be contacting the mugger to tell him about big winners. Tony told me that you and he and Jana were the only ones in the club allowed to have phones. Even after only knowing you a few days, I know you're not going to risk a police report of a mugging that might involve the club. And Cheryl was attacked on a Wednesday." Jim shrugged. "Jana's not here Wednesdays."

Len stared at him. "If I didn't think this whole thing was real damn convenient for you, I'd put you on the door right now."

The security cam light went off, leaving only the light of the single bulb over the door.

It sounded like Len might be cooling down a little, and Jim tried again. "I really appreciate what you've done for me, Len. It's not just the money. It's giving me a purpose when I was wandering around without any idea of who I am or what I could do. I want to be part of a team, I know that now for sure. I want to be part of your team. But we can't – " He groped for words, thinking it out himself as he said it to Len – "We can't just let this guy go so he can keep slamming people in the gut and robbing them. It wouldn't just be bad for the city, for people you don't know. It would be bad for the team. We'd know this jerk was out there hurting people because we weren't willing to do anything about it. And we'd pay eventually some way. I know we would."

"Great. I hired a philosopher."

"Look," the mugger said from the ground. "This is a hassle for you. Just cut me loose. I'm not going to bother your club again. I mean, you don't want cops any more – "

Len dropped to his haunches and slammed his fist onto the mugger's cheekbone. The mugger's head snapped to the side and he grunted.

"I'd have broken your nose, but I don't want blood on the concrete." Len stood. "You keep your mouth shut. You've been screwing with my business, and you get no vote in anything. None! Understood?"

The mugger nodded.

Len cast a disgusted glare all around him. "OK. I don't want the cops. But you want to protect the citizens. OK." He looked suddenly at Jim. "You've got a gun. Shoot him."

After a startled moment, Jim said, "Come on, Len. You're not a killer, and neither am I."

"Kneecap, then. Do that, I guarantee his mugging days are over. And if he – "

The mugger had evidently decided that police were a preferable option. "Help!" he yelled. "Some – "

Len dropped down again, staring into the face of the mugger, who went quiet.

"You screwed with my business," Len said. "You screwed with my customers. Now you're gonna take your punishment and keep your mouth shut. Most of the guys I know aren't philosophers, but they're good at finding assholes like you. I'm gonna make sure they find Tony. And if you tell the cops about this place, next time it'll be an eye you lose. Or worse."

"OK, OK, OK." The mugger was blubbering. "I get it, I do, but please not the knee. I swear, I won't tell the cops anything, I swear. You gotta, I know you feel like you gotta do something, just not the knee. Please. I won't say anything. I won't."

Len sighed as if with long-suffering patience. "Fine. Leg bone. No whining, no ratting. We'll put you out of action for a while. Give you time to figure out something else to do. Learn computer programming."

He stood and addressed Jim. "When I give you the signal, take him back behind those cars. One in the leg. Make sure he doesn't scream. Give him something to bite on. Too bad we can't give him Tony's dick."

He went to the head of the walkway, scrutinizing the sidewalk, passing traffic, the long parking lot across the street. Leaning casually on one of the retaining walls, he watched a couple get out of their car, walk across the street, and head for the steps up the hill. Jim dragged the mugger by his collar up to Len.

"OK," Len said, pointing. "Make it fast."

Easy to say when you're not the one dragging a dead weight across concrete. But Len had picked his spot well. While parking thinned out in some areas, there was a double line of cars where Len had pointed, and the nearest light to them was burned out. Still, getting the guy there was a challenge, and Jim wasn't happy that Len turned and went back into the club as soon as he saw that Jim had made it across the street.

Jim dropped the mugger as soon as he got behind the row of cars, and sat down next to him so that he was himself hidden.

"I've got money," the mugger said. "It's at my place. You can keep the gun on me, I'll give you all of it, just – "

"Shut up for a moment, I'm thinking," Jim said almost absently.

OK. Maybe in his pre-amnesia life he was wanted by the police for doing – whatever gave him so many scars. For sure he felt grateful to Len for giving him a job and believing in him despite his weird background. For sure, he did want to be a part of Len's team, and with Tony gone, there was an opening.

But he also knew there was no way he was going to shoot a bound, helpless man. In the knee, in the leg, anywhere.

This seemed to argue against one theory: What kind of gang member refuses to shoot enemies when it's possible to do it?

Maybe an incompetent gang member, hence the scars. He smiled briefly.

So to sum up: He wanted the mugger in the hands of police, he didn't want Len's club to suffer, and he didn't want to shoot the mugger.

"You know, I'm not kidding about the money," the mugger said. "My thing with Tony isn't the only – "

"Shut up, I'm not going to shoot you."

The mugger started to smile, then reconsidered, clearly realizing that there was a catch.

"The police are going to rescue you."

A moment of consideration. Then, "Huh?"

Jim pulled the mugger's current gun out of his own waistband. He was glad to get rid of it; he was still carrying the one he'd taken off the mugger on Tuesday, and he was starting to feel like a tank.

With the mugger watching him anxiously, Jim removed the ammunition from the gun, wiped it to get rid of his own fingerprints, rolled the mugger over, worked the gun around in the mugger's hands, then stuck the gun firmly between the mugger's bound feet, where he couldn't reach it.

"Everything depends on you now," Jim said. "Obviously, you're going to tell the police that you were attacked." He looked at the bleeding bruise where Len had hit the mugger. "You're want to tell them a simple story, one that's easy to stick to. My guess is, you have no license to carry a gun and this isn't registered. Maybe you're a parolee and you're not supposed to have a gun. Whatever the problem is – if there is a problem – you're going to apologize for making a stupid mistake and, like Len said, take your punishment without whining. Whatever it is, it's better than a bullet in the knee. And because you're getting a break, you're not going to tell the cops about Len's club. Right? Because if you do, your victims don't have any secret to keep from the police anymore, and I'll see that they testify against you. You might think that you could get some kind of a break from the cops if you tell them about the club. Don't think that. Cops take a guy who pistol-whips a woman a lot more seriously than some card games and slot machines. Len will be set up in business again someplace else in no time. And you'll be in prison, where Len's friends know right where to find you."

The mugger stared at him.

"Clear?"

"Uh, yeah. Clear."

"OK."

He took the mugger's phone – which would royally confuse the issue, which was deliberate – and called 911.

"Yeah, hi, I'm on Connecticut Street in Westport. You know that big parking lot on Massachusetts? Well, one of your guys was arresting a guy, I mean, they were fighting and he put handcuffs on him, and I got outta there before anyone started shooting, but now I'm wondering if that was really a cop. I mean, I wasn't going to ask him for his badge or anything, but the whole attack was kind of – The long parking lot on Massachusetts, you know, down the hill from that restaurant, Angeleno's? – I don't know, I don't wanna give my name. I mean, if that guy was a cop I don't want to get him mad at me. Yeah, I know, but – " And he disconnected.

He wiped off the phone with his shirttail, stuck it in a front pocket of the mugger's jacket, looked around, started to stand, settled back onto his knees.

"Almost forgot," he said, and slugged the mugger in the gut.

The mugger gasped and his bound legs convulsed. "That's from one of your victims," Jim said, and stood.

He sauntered away easily, as though he had no idea that there was anyone on the ground behind him. He crossed the street and headed up the steps, stopping about halfway, where he could keep an eye on the parking lot, checking the time on his phone every so often as if he were waiting for someone.

About the time that the mugger managed to roll out from behind the cars and was struggling to his feet while leaning against a fender, Jim saw a police car coming down the street. He pretended to tie his shoe while watching as the officers spotted the mugger and turned into the lot. Then he walked briskly up the steps to Connecticut Street.

If he saw Jana in the shop, he was going to explain to her what he'd done, but the place was dark, so he kept going. He was betting that the police wouldn't go to the club tonight, anyway. His guess was that the mugger would try to tell the cops that he was an innocent guy who'd been attacked and bound for no reason by a thug who, again, for no reason, stuck a gun between his feet.

After that, it would depend on how intensely the cops were interested. Jim really had no idea how seriously they'd take the matter. Would they simply file a report, take the gun as evidence, and file it under Weird But No One Got Killed? Or would they bring the mugger in and grill him seriously? If they did that, the mugger would try to sell them a simple story, they'd lean on him for what really happened, and the guy just didn't have the brains to stick to a simple story. He'd wind up telling them everything, trying to convince them that Len and Jim blamed him wrongfully for the recent muggings, and Len's club would be in serious trouble.

And even so, he thought his plan was best. The mugger could have bled to death with a bullet wound to the leg. Besides the fact that Jim would have felt like crap, it would have had that part of Westport swarming with police. If the guy hadn't bled to death, he still would have been so enraged that he'd probably have pointed the police at Len as soon as he hit the nearest hospital.

He walked up to Westport Road, ducked into an alley by a comedy club, called Len, and told him what he'd done.

Len cursed bitterly. "Fine, Girl Scout. I'll go and put a bullet in him myself."

"I wouldn't. The police are out there now." And, as Len swore again, "Do you have a way of making the club look like a real storage facility?"

"Yeah, given about five minutes."

"I'd close down for the night and do that."

"Oh, you would? Think you're in charge here?"

"You can fight with me or get busy getting people out through the store and disguising the club. I'll help if you want."

"Well, that would be damn nice of you, given the fact that you no longer work here. Get gone, asshole. I don't need your help."

"OK," Jim said, but Len had disconnected.

He sighed a little, leaning against the alley wall.

Well, he'd done what he could toward taking the mugger out of circulation, he'd accomplished that goal. And he clearly had no future with Len.

Just two more things, he told himself. He'd talk to Tanya at the Psychic Fair tomorrow afternoon, and have his planned confrontation with Greg at the tattoo place tomorrow night. Greg's place was about a half-mile from St. Luke's Hospital; if he didn't have a good lead to his identity at that point, he'd walk over to the hospital and tell them his sad story.

Maybe there was nothing to fear; maybe he wasn't a bad guy. After all, even if he knew how to fight, he wouldn't follow an order to shoot a bound and helpless man – not even an order from someone to whom he felt grateful.

Granted, he was willing to punch the helpless man when the guy had done the same thing to a woman. And Jim was willing to take whatever consequences might arise from that.

Len had paid him for Wednesday and Thursday nights, but he didn't have enough money to spend the night in the hotel again. But he had more than enough for a nice dinner at a pub on the Plaza that was open late. He'd sleep in the big park near the Plaza, he'd had good luck so far there without getting caught.

Tomorrow – maybe one last check at the Plaza Library for internet information, then the Psychic Fair, then Spirit Board Tattoo. But he was getting realistic. He'd had a couple of tantalizing hints, but hadn't made any real progress searching for his identity on his own. If he didn't get any help tomorrow, he'd buy a book, have a nice dinner, and then head to St. Luke's.


	5. Saturday

SATURDAY

Warren was completely cooperative. It might not be too much to say that he was putty in Dean's hands. Some of this was due to the fact that Warren's security guard had been either unconscious or locked in the trunk of the Impala since Dean had taken control back at the rental house; some of it was due to the gun in Warren's back; but a lot of it had to do with the look on Dean's face.

"Just tell me what you think she's done," Warren said, walking up the shrubbery- shielded front steps of his lovely suburban home. "I mean, if your brother's injured, I can pay for his expenses, hospital, whatever."

"Very helpful, Warren. Right now, take me to the stuff you bought from Lili Cabot on Thursday, then we'll talk about what you can do for Sam. But before you touch that security panel – "

Warran's hand halted in mid-air.

"I don't need to tell you what happens if cops arrive while I'm here. Do I?"

Warren shook his head, punched in a code, and opened the door.

"Where's our stuff?"

"The vault."

There was a moment's silence.

"In the other room," Warren said, pointing. He led Dean into what, in the 19th century, would have been called a salon – comfortable furniture arranged in a conversation grouping, a piano, large paintings on the wall, and a six-foot-high bookcase with books and figurines.

Warren pulled three specific books in a specific order to an angle, and the whole bookcase slid to one side, revealing a door with a keypad. Closely watched by Dean, Warren entered a code on the keypad, and pushed open the door.

"Go ahead," Dean said, and Warren entered first. Carefully, Dean followed. The vault was almost as long as the salon, though not as deep. It was lined with simple but heavy-duty metal shelving bolted to the walls, which bore objects ranging from stacks of cash to a sword with a gold blade.

"Sweet," Dean said, spotting the sword, and pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket. "OK, Warren, sit on the floor. Right there."

"Oh, not these again, man, come on. They damn near cut off the circulation back in the car."

"Don't strain against them," Dean advised. "Sit down."

Warren did, and Dean handcuffed him to one of the shelves. He picked up the golden blade, looked around at the other items, and mumbled, "No witch collar. She probably burned it. Damn."

"Why would she do that? Isn't it worth anything?"

Dean looked at him in disgust. "Because if someone like, say, me put it on her, she'd have to obey that person's orders."

Warren scoffed. "Cathy's not a witch. That's just her – fantasy thing. I play along."

"Thought her name was Lili."

Warren sighed. "Her real name's Cathy Corn, she comes from North Dakota somewhere. She just likes to go by Lilith."

"Lilith?" Dean snorted. "She does have delusions of grandeur."

"Right?" Warren chuckled, obviously trying to get Dean to laugh along with him. "The most powerful witch of all time? Where'd that story come from, anyway?"

"Lilith's a demon. Well," with a grim smile, "she was."

"So, um," trying to sound tactful, "then you believe that demons exist?"

"I know they do. But Cathy's the practicing witch. Doesn't she?"

"No. I mean, no insult to your religion or whatever, this is what Cathy says. There's no angels or demons or ghosts or anything like that. She says practicing magic is like being successful in business – you have the right tools and enough willpower, you can do anything."

Dean's gaze shifted, went absent. His grip on the gun tightened, and Warren tried to turn away as much as he could.

When Dean spoke, his voice was surprisingly soft. "I hate what she's done to Sam, and I'll absolutely bounce her around a room until she breaks the spell, but I honestly hope, for her sake, she never finds out how wrong she is."

Warren, wide-eyed, watched him carefully.

Dean came back to the present and flashed a grin at Warren. "Maybe we can save her, you and me, Warren. You're going to help me find her. Right?"

"Right, I mean, if she's hurt somebody, sure."

"Awesome. First things first."

Dean went out to the Impala, carefully looking around as he went. There was more shrubbery around the edge of the property – no surprise that a fence liked his privacy – but he checked the street for oncoming cars before he opened the trunk and grabbed the zip-tied wrists of Warren's security guy. It took more time than Dean liked – even though the guard was still staggering from his previous fight with Dean, he tried to resist – but finally the guard was in the vault too, zip-tied to another set of shelves.

Dean sat on the floor, his gun hand resting casually on one knee and the barrel pointing directly at Warren's leg. "OK," Warren said, "OK, you don't need to – "

"How do you know Cathy?"

Warren swallowed. "Met her a couple years ago at a party in Chicago, she knew a guy I know. We were talkin' about his collection of occult objects, and I knew something about 'em. She asked if I was a collector. I said I was more of a distributor."

"You got that informative at your first meeting?"

Warren smiled weakly. "She's pretty hot."

"Uh-huh. So she mentioned that she could get hold of things for you to re-sell, and that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. As long as you didn't ask any questions about where she got her merchandise."

"I don't really ask a whole lot of questions. From any of my suppliers. So, you know, I didn't know that she stole that stuff from your brother."

"How did she know where to go, how to get it?"

"I don't – Maybe he told her? She can be really – " Warren gave a lopsided grin. "She can talk you into things, y'know?"

"Not Sam, she didn't. And we know she hasn't got him at gunpoint, he was seen walking around freely in a library after she left it. Did she have a notebook with her, or something?"

"Just her spell book. Anyway, she calls it that."

"Anything with notes, or – " Dean stopped and backed up mentally. "What do you mean, she 'calls it that'? Doesn't it have any spells?"

"I only saw it once. She's pretty protective of it. But I looked in it once, and it's nothing. It's like, dates and cities and a bunch of smears."

"Smears?"

"Some kind of greenish thick stuff. I said, OK, how do you say that spell? And she laughed and said, Sometimes a smell can be inspirational, something like that."

"A smell." Dean stood and took a couple of paces, looking at the shelves, looking down at Warren and the guard. "Sam had a smear of something on his forehead when he walked back into the library with no memory. That's it. The amnesia isn't just how she makes a clean getaway, it's her whole MO. She steals your memory somehow with that potion, and the smell lets her see the memory. She knows everything you have and where you keep it. She takes your hotel door card and she can 'remember' which room you're in, she takes your keys and she knows what doors they open where, what car is yours. She knows your ATM PIN number, she knows your computer passwords. And if you're a guy who doesn't have a real fat bank account, she can still steal your stuff and liquidate it with a cooperative fence."

Clearly, Warren thought Dean was flat out of his mind, but just as clearly knew that you don't say that to a guy with a gun. "I'll be happy to help you get it back, no problem."

Dean looked around the room. "I _have_ the stuff back, Warren. The most important thing is getting my brother back. So you're going to help me get hold of Cathy, and she's going to give my brother his memory back, and then everyone lives happily ever after."

"Including Cathy? 'Cause she – I mean, I know – "

"Oh, of course," Dean said with a grimace. "She gives you more than good bargains when she rolls into town."

"You know, she's – I wouldn't want anything to happen – "

"You're a real gentleman, Warren. But let me explain something to you. My brother is out there wandering around in real danger because of what Cathy did to him. I don't know if you have any family members you're close to, much less any family members who've saved your life a few dozen times, but if you do, imagine what you'd do to get them out of danger."

He looked at Warren, who simply nodded.

"Now there are two ways to get a witch to break a spell. One is to trap her and let her know she's not going anyplace until she breaks the spell. The other way is to kill the witch."

Warren went very still.

"Now you're thinking, 'Hey, it's a big country, he'll never find her,'" Dean continued. "'There's no way he could know that she's heading for Buffalo, New York.'"

The fence's face went slack with astonishment.

"See, she may know where all of our stuff is, but so do I, Warren. And I've spent twenty-five years tracking and killing evil creeps that you couldn't even imagine. Don't kid yourself that Cathy Corn from North Dakota with her spell book and her girlish charm is going to get away from me. She won't."

Unexpectedly, the security guard spoke up. "Big tough guy. Gonna kill a girl."

"I don't want to do it," Dean said. "I will if I don't have any other choice. But Warren, you're going to help me with the other choice, aren't you?"

"How?"

Several minutes and a little role-playing rehearsal later, Dean pressed an icon in Warren's phone, turned on the speaker, and held the phone to Warren's face.

"Hey babe." The woman who called herself Lilith had a voice like a jaded 13-year-old. "Can I call you back later? I'm busy."

"The police were here," Warren said.

A moment's silence. "Yeah, and?"

"And they asked me all about you. They know your name, they know what kind of car you were driving. They knew you were here. I told 'em you just came by to visit, but I don't think they believed it. A couple of them were in the other room, I heard one of them telling another one how long it takes to drive to New York."

The childlike voice let loose with a stream of profanity that made even Dean raise his eyebrows. "How do they know that? They can't know about that, no way!"

"Well, they do. Something about – the guy has a brother and they own a bunch of stuff in common? They're on to me too, I'm sure of it. I'm takin' the cash from the vault and going to Mexico for a nice long vacation before anyone tells me not to leave town."

"Can I come with you?"

Both men looked a little startled. Dean hadn't expected her to jump right into the trap. Dean mouthed, "Maybe," and Warren said, "Maybe. It might help keep us below the radar if we go separately. But are you gonna have enough money for that?"

"No!" Cathy said, preceding it with a four-letter word. "I only had about three thousand when I came into town, and you only gave me about four thousand, and then I had to buy a car, Warren! That damn Model T might as well have had neon lights, I barely got away from the Highway Patrol in Nebraska! And I knew if I stole a car, it'd be the same thing, so I had to buy one, this decrepit piece of crap. I've got just enough money for gas and hotels to get back to you. But I've got some good stuff, Warren, you're gonna want it."

"I suppose, I but really want to get moving, and so should you. You got enough for us to meet somewhere? Like Kansas City?"

"Crap, I hate that place. Why Kansas City?"

"I've got a friend who'll loan me a car for a while. We're gonna meet at a golf course in Overland Park – you know, over the state line?"

"Yeah."

"I'll dump my car in the parking lot there, and Ed will meet me there with his car. They'll be able to trace me as far as that, but no farther."

"Sounds good, babe." With a seductive lilt, "Sure you don't want some company?"

"I, uh – How soon can you get there?"

After a moment, "Like, ten o'clock tomorrow night? I've gotta get a few hours' sleep on the way, it's a long drive."

"Yeah, I bet." Dean was twirling his finger in a wrap-it-up gesture. "But get going now, Lilith. I don't know if the cops who were here called the cops where you are or anything. Just take what you've already got in the car and move. I'll give you a good price for it. I'm gonna hit the road now too, hide out at Ed's house."

He told her where the golf club was, she told him to be sure to wait for her, he told her he couldn't wait to see her in a bikini on a Mexican beach, and they disconnected.

"That was good," Dean said admiringly, standing and putting Warren's phone in his own pocket. "Anyone ever tell you that you have a real gift for lying? I'm gonna load up the car now."

He was a little surprised at how well he remembered what was theirs and what wasn't, even though he wished Sam had been there. Some of the items had Men of Letters symbols on them, which helped. He loaded them in the trunk, which filled it. One of the items in the trunk was the katana he'd taken from Warren at Warren's rental place, which had ridden in the back seat while the security guard occupied the trunk.

He went back into the vault and looked over the stacks of American money. He stuffed a few labeled bundles into his jacket pockets. "That three thousand that Cathy bought her new car with – that was ours, Warren. You're reimbursing us."

"Take it all. No problem. Just don't – Just take the money and – and don't – "

Dean bent abruptly over the security guard and Warren squeezed his eyes shut, turning his back with a cry of fear.

"Warren," the guard said. "It's OK, he's just takin' my phone. If he was gonna kill us, he wouldn't care if we had phones."

"You know your job," Dean told him. He straightened. "The problem is, the moment I let you go, you'll call Cathy. So I'm afraid you've got to stay here for a while. I'll call someone to let you out as soon as Sam's safe. So – you'd better hope we can get him back."

"When you get him back? We'll starve to death!"

Dean checked his watch. "Ten o'clock tomorrow's a little less than thirty-six hours. Yeah, you're both gonna be pretty miserable, but you won't be dead. Take the time to do some thinking, Warren. Reassess your life choices."

He left the vault door open enough to let air in, taped a sign on the front door that said, "Diarrhea – Please Come Back Tomorrow," got in the Impala, and headed for the highway.

.

The Psychic Fair was being held in a large empty building that looked like it had once been a discount store. Most of the light from the huge windows was filtered by long signs saying "Psychic Fair" and the dates, and featuring a picture of a woman in a long gown holding up an old-fashioned lantern.

The site was about five blocks from Len's club. Jim walked by just to see if anything was happening there, but there was no activity. That was actually a good sign – the club should be quiet in the afternoon. He'd been afraid he'd see police cars.

Not that it was his business anymore, anyway. Tonight, in all probability, he wouldn't be Jim Hunter. He'd be John Doe, amnesia case.

He no longer expected serious clues about his identity from either Tanya or Greg. But he hoped for reassurance. If neither of them thought that the tattoo meant he was a member of a serial killer cult or anything like that, maybe he'd be all right once his picture went out to the public.

There was a partitioned-off room at the doors where two people sat at counters selling tickets. Jim was third in line, and the other line was longer. The subdued roar of an enthusiastic but sober crowd spilled over the partitions.

Past the admissions room, fluorescent lights illuminated a huge area crowded with booths and tables, signs posted overhead giving the names of the dealers or psychic readers. A wide set of shelves and long counter displayed mortars and pestles made of different kinds of rock and wands from different kinds of wood. There was a line of tables where both men and women – mostly women – looked at clients' palms or focused on a tarot spread or just listened to the clients talk. A string of vibrant-colored crystals pulled his gaze to a booth selling rocks and minerals. A camera flashed as a Goth teenager had a picture taken of his aura.

Jim couldn't help but grin. Whether you believed in this stuff or not, you had to admit it was interesting.

"Would you like a program?"

Jim looked down ten inches at a pretty blonde girl offering him an eight-page booklet. "There's a map of the layout in here, and descriptions of the psychics who do readings."

"Yeah, thanks." He took it as he said, "I'm actually looking for Amazing Amulets."

She took the opportunity to move close to him, opening the booklet to the map page, and wow did she smell good. Then she pointed, silver bracelets dangling from her slender bare arm. "Right over there in the corner."

"Thanks."

"Need anything else?"

He smiled at her. "Not now. If I have any more questions, I'll come back."

"I'll be here!" she said cheerfully, resuming her seat at the information counter.

There were a dozen people around Amazing Amulets' booth, which sold symbols, charms, and small cloth bags fill with herbs. A man and woman ran the booth, both talking to customers, the woman comparing three different pendants for a couple who were talking about wire-wrapping. Jim edged closer, assuming the woman was Tanya. He wished he'd printed out a copy of the symbol from the verminmurder web site, so he wouldn't have to open up his shirt in public again.

A hand gripped his arm with force.

He spun, wrenching his arm toward the man's thumb, but the man holding him was amazingly strong. And there was clear recognition in his eyes. "Sam," he said.

Jim relaxed his arm and stepped back, his astonishment matching the stranger's. "You know me!"

"Yes," the man said in a deep and oddly formal tone. "But I understand that you don't know me."

"Where? Who?" Jim didn't even know where to begin.

"We should talk someplace more private."

And since there were already two people who were watching them, Jim had to agree. The man nodded at the doors across the room and Jim walked fast toward them, the man close enough to him that he could have grabbed Jim's arm again any second.

They got out to the sidewalk, looking out over fifty or so parked cars. Jim blinked in the change from indoors to the bright June sun, but the man didn't seem to need any eye adjustment. "The hotel is approximately one and a half miles from here," he said. "Generally you have no objection to walking such a distance, but if – "

"Whoa." Jim held up a hand. "I want to talk to you, I do, but how about we do it someplace a little more public than a hotel room?"

The stranger gave a very small smile. Out in the light, his eyes were really blue. "I understand." He looked over at a couple of concrete benches in front of the building. "Perhaps one of those benches?"

Trying to remember if anyone he'd spoken to in the last week – or ever – had used the word "perhaps," Jim went over to the bench, took off his backpack, slung it under the bench, and sat down. The stranger sat down next to him and said, "To begin with, your name is Sam Winchester."

"Really?" It took him only a second to think about it, a smile breaking out on his face. "That's a cool name."

"It is. You have a brother, Dean, and he must be notified immediately that you've been found. But before that happens, I must ascertain that you are who you look like."

Jim blinked. "What, have I got an evil doppelganger?"

"What do you remember of your life?"

"Nothing. I mean, I have – " He gestured vaguely – "feelings. Like, it's dangerous to be too – high-profile. Does that make sense?"

"It makes perfect sense."

Jim took a breath. "Am I a criminal?"

A moment of thought. "Only in the most forgivable way. But public attention is undesirable."

"What the hell do I do?"

The man tilted his head. "I feel that Dean should be the one to answer your questions, but I will tell you the basics. First, however – "

"Oh, yeah. Ascertaining that I'm really me. How can you do that?"

"I need to touch your temples."

The guy was perfectly serious.

"Uh, OK," Jim said after a moment.

The stranger lifted his hands, his long fingers resting on either side of Jim's head.

Jim's head filled with a white light that buzzed and brought every emotion to the surface. He jerked backward with a gasp. "What the hell?"

His vision cleared and he saw that a couple who was heading for the doors had stopped to look.

OK, so it was weird, but he didn't want the guy to be chased away. He slapped a grin on his face and said to the man, "OK, that's some pretty powerful – aura reading, there!"

The couple moved on. Jim dropped his grin and his vocal volume. "What the hell was that?"

"I apologize. I'm accustomed to dealing with you when you understand angelic power."

"'Angelic'? As in – " Jim looked around and whispered, "Are you saying you're an angel?"

"I am."

"Any way of proving that?"

"It seems to me that I was in the process of proving it when you pulled away."

"Well, OK, yeah, that either proves you're an angel or a guy with electrodes up his sleeves."

The guy didn't seem insulted. After a moment, he stood and removed his trench coat, then his suit jacket. He sat back down beside Jim, unbuttoned his shirt sleeves, and rolled them to the elbow.

He turned over his forearms for Jim to examine. "I assure you that I have no electrodes."

His tone was so solemn that Jim was tempted to smile. "So what was that?"

"I am – taking a glimpse, in a way, at your soul. I don't have to touch it, so this will not be painful. It may, however, be uncomfortable."

"No 'may' about it. Are you – How do we know each other?"

"I am a friend."

"If angels are friends, how come you can get a weapon with an anti-angel symbol burned into the case?"

Puzzlement in the blue eyes. "You – remember this?"

"No. I wanted to find out about a tattoo I have, so I did some research."

Unexpectedly, the angel smiled with genuine affection. "That sentence alone reassures me that you are the real Sam Winchester. But I need to determine that you are not acting as an unwitting host for any kind of evil entity. So, if I may – " He lifted his hands again.

Acknowledging that angels might theoretically exist is one thing; letting some quiet-voiced stranger zap you in the temples is another. But no weirdness supersedes the weirdness of waking up on a bench with absolutely no idea of who or what you are. Jim decided that the risk was worth the reward of finding out about himself. "Go ahead."

The buzzing whiteness and emotional surge were less of a surprise this time, but no less uncomfortable. He gasped and forced himself not to move away. It felt like, if this kept up, he'd fall or fly right out of his body.

Then it stopped. He saw patches of color, recognized them as a car, the yellow strip of a curb, someone's shoes walking past. He lifted his head, catching his breath, the sounds of an urban summer afternoon coming back to him. The angel was rolling down his shirt sleeves.

Jim cleared his throat. "So. Am I me?"

"You are. And you are not possessed by anything. This is very good news."

His tone was approving but not particularly excited; Jim wondered if he ever got excited about anything. "So now you give me information."

Without even putting on his suit jacket, the man was pulling a phone from its pocket. "Now we inform your brother. He will be overjoyed to hear this."

Still in the same calm tone. "Where is he?" Jim asked.

.

Dean was driving down I-55, demonstrating proper drumming technique on the Impala's steering wheel while Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir" filled the car, when his phone rang. He looked at the screen and pulled over onto the shoulder of the road. He turned off the tape, picked up the phone, and simply said, "Hello?"

"Marshal Ulrich?"

"That's me. Who's this?"

"This is Officer Linwood of the Chicago Police Department." A businesslike female voice. "I understand that you put out a BOLO on a 1956 Dodge Coronet last seen in Kansas City, Missouri."

"Yeah, I did. Have you found it?"

"It was abandoned in an empty lot downtown, stripped. There are signs that it was taken for a pretty violent joyride, as well."

Dean gritted his teeth. All the hours he spent on that car.

"Will your office be retrieving it?" Officer Linwood asked.

"Yeah." Dean snapped himself out of it. "Yeah. We're right in the middle of something here, but I'll get somebody over there with the paperwork in the next couple of days. Will that work for you?"

It would, so they discussed where the car could be picked up and whether a tow truck would be adequate or a flatbed would be needed.

He disconnected and sat still, his gaze absent, shaking his head.

His phone rang again. He looked at it, made a face, and answered with, "I didn't kill the guy, I promise."

"I have found Sam," Castiel's voice said. "He is alive and well, and uncorrupted by any supernatural influence, except for the amnesia."

Dean sat up straight, eyes wide. "Where is he?"

"In Westport, with me."

"Let me talk to him."

"His personal memories have been removed almost surgically. He remembers neither of us."

"Just want to hear his voice, Cas."

"I understand." Then, a little off the phone's speaker, "This is your brother, Dean."

And then the most familiar voice in the world. "Um – hi, Dean."

"Sam!" He sucked in air, only then realizing that he'd stopped breathing. "Are you all right? Where've you been?"

"I'm OK. I've been in Kansas City. I just wish I knew more."

"Don't worry about that. We're gonna get your memory back. The main thing is you're safe and sound." He sucked in another deep breath, wondering if he'd done that all week. "That's the main thing."

"Thanks. You know – " a pause – "I hoped there was someone who was looking for me. Who could fill me in."

"Oh, yeah, we've been looking for you. Cas and I have been kickin' asses and takin' names. We know who took your memory, and we're gonna get that spell broken." He laughed. "Then you'll be able to remember all the times I've been a pain in the ass."

"Well – I'm sure I've been a pain in the ass to you too."

"Oh yeah. Big time." He laughed again. "I'm on the road from Chicago, I'll be there in a few hours. You stick with Cas, all right? Don't, don't go wandering off."

"Uh – OK, although you know I'm not six years old, right?"

"Yeah, I know. 'Cause when you _were_ six, you used to say, 'You know I'm not a baby, right?' Same exact tone."

A chuckle. "I'm looking forward to meeting you. Seeing you."

"Same here, Sammy. Let me talk to Cas."

"How soon – " Cas began.

"How?" Dean asked explosively.

"You have yourself to thank. You were the one who thought that Sam would retain an interest in occult subjects, even if he wasn't aware that they were his vocation. When I saw that there was a psychic fair in Westport I decided to search there."

"Cas – As if I didn't already owe you – "

"We both worked hard at this. One of us would have found him eventually."

"I suppose, but – " Dean looked out over the highway. "I'm about five hours out. The witch who cast the spell on Sam is on her way to Overland Park, she thinks she's meeting Warren. She'll be here at ten o'clock tomorrow night, and we need to have a plan by then."

"Sam looks like he could use some sleep, so I'll let him do that while you come here. He's very eager, as you can imagine, to learn about himself, so I'm going to tell him the basics. But I feel it's best to leave the personal biographical details to you to explain."

"Fine. I – Man. Suddenly occurs to me – Does he even want to know all this crap?"

"This is Sam. He will want to know everything, the good and the bad."

"Yeah, you're right. I'm on my way. Think of something great you want for your birthday."

"Your safe return."

"Got it. OK. If I'm gonna move, I've gotta hang up." And he disconnected, putting the phone on the passenger seat.

He gave a long sigh, feeling the tension go out of his shoulder muscles, dropping his head.

After a moment he mumbled, "Thanks."

He wiped his eyes, straightened. He checked the highway and merged back onto it, cranking Led Zeppelin to 11.

.

"Aren't you warm?" Jim asked as the angel donned his trench coat.

"No." The angel sat down beside him again. "I said that I will give you the basics."

"Yeah – " Jim's voice trailed off, and the other man cocked his head again.

"Sorry. I'm sure you're great people – or, angels – both of you. It's just – I'm getting the most important information of my life from a guy who zaps your head and a voice on the phone."

"You distrust our motives. That's understandable. How do you want to proceed?"

The angel was leaving it up to him, which made Jim trust him more. But not completely. "Go ahead, and I'll go along until I see a reason not to."

"Very well. The basics, then: You and your brother are the strongest and most altruistic humans I've ever known. You are not perfect – you, Sam, have a tendency to be impatient with people who don't grasp things as quickly as you do, and Dean is sensually self-indulgent. But you have both spent a lifetime fighting evil and finding meaning in that fight, and you have both sacrificed, greatly and often, to save the lives of people you will never know and who will never know to thank you for it."

So yes, the angel could get excited about something.

The words, and the fervent tone in which they were uttered, struck Jim dumb. He didn't even have any thoughts in his head for a second.

After a moment, "Thank you."

"This is simply basic information."

He felt a smile creeping over his face. "Um – where I live? What I do for a living?"

"Oh. Yes. You understand that for me, the soul information is basic."

"Do I have a wife? Girlfriend? Kids?"

"No."

"Oh."

"It is not that you lack a desire for intimacy, but your work is not at all conducive to it."

"That's one of the sacrifices? What is – I mean, you said we fight evil, but how specifically?"

A guy walking toward the door of the psychic fair cast a glance at Jim as he asked the question. "Maybe we should walk and talk," Jim said.

The angel nodded once and rose. "Do you have a name?" Jim asked.

"Castiel. You and Dean usually refer to me as Cas."

Jim got his backpack out from under the bench. They headed down the sidewalk, in a direction Cas chose, but it wasn't like Jim had any better ideas. "How did we wind up getting to know an angel?"

Hesitation. "I assisted Dean at one time. I came to know you through him. This is among the details I will leave to him."

"So – are we a team?"

"Indeed."

Jim nodded thoughtfully. "You know, the first couple of days – it wasn't that I enjoyed having no memory, but it was kind of interesting, constructing a life completely on my own. But that got old, and I kept thinking I wanted to be part of a family, or at least a team. I actually was, for a hot minute. But – "

He stopped, and Castiel did too.

"My boss, the head of the team, wanted me to do something – shoot a guy who was tied up. I mean, you could make a case that the guy deserved to be shot, but – even for the team – I wouldn't do it. Does that – sound like me?"

"It sounds exactly like you. How did your boss respond?"

Jim, looking rueful, started to walk again. "Kicked me off the team."

"He has poor judgment. That does not bode well for him."

"So – you said we fight evil. How, specifically?"

That part of the conversation took a while.

.

Jim was leaning back in a large faux-leather chair, eyes closed and very relaxed, when he heard the electronic lock on the hotel-room door click. A moment later he heard a male voice say, "Cas," then a moment of silence, and then he could tell that the newcomer had moved over close to him. It felt like the man had brought a wave of heat, motion, and feeling into the room.

Quietly, the newcomer asked, "Is he OK?"

"Surprisingly so. He was very hungry by the time we'd walked to the Plaza, and we stopped at a restaurant. He told me that he's mostly been living on apples, beef jerky, and trail mix, which he sometimes stole and sometimes purchased with his income from an illegal gambling club that employed him briefly. He had some money left over from that." There was actually amusement in Castiel's tone. "At the moment, he has more cash than we do."

"Not anymore, I got our money back from good ol' Warren. But that's it, huh? Just hungry? Not injured?"

"He was very tired. He slept on the ground four of the last five nights. I encouraged him to eat a large meal, knowing that would add to his sleepiness, and he finally consented to come back to the hotel room. He preferred sleeping in this chair to sleeping in either of the beds, however."

Now the newcomer's voice was mischievous. "Didn't trust himself around your seductive charm. So how long has he been out?"

"A little less than four hours. He woke about fifteen minutes before you arrived. I think he's waiting to see if I do anything suspicious while I believe he's unconscious."

Well, so much for that ruse. Jim opened his eyes and met the gaze of the man crouched before him. "Does he do that a lot?" Jim asked irritably.

The newcomer grinned. "What, blurt out personal information? Not as much as he used to. But he thought I needed to know that."

He gave a deep sigh, and sadness threw a shadow across his face that lifted in a moment. "So glad to see you, Sammy. I'm not gonna hug you 'cause I don't want to freak you out, but you should just know. I'm so glad to have you back safe."

He straightened and moved away, lithe easy movement that bespoke excellent physical condition. "You're Dean?" Jim asked.

A great smile lit the newcomer's handsome face. "The one and only."

"From the way Cas talked about how you eat, I figured you'd be fatter."

Dean shot a flat look at Cas, who raised his eyebrows. "I simply mentioned facts. He drew his own conclusions."

"Cas says you might know how to get my memory back."

Dean sat on the end of the bed facing Jim. "We know exactly how to do it. Getting it done, that's the trick." He looked at Cas. "She thinks she's meeting Warren at the same place where we exorcised that demon. Once we get her contained, I don't think we'll need more than an hour, if that. She's a gifted newbie, thinks she knows it all. She doesn't even believe in spirits or demons, thinks magic is just her own amazing willpower. She'll break pretty easy."

"Break?" Jim said.

"Agree to reverse the spell. Even a newbie has got to know that the quickest way to break a spell is to kill the witch who cast it. Once she knows we're willing to do that – "

"But you aren't, are you?" Jim said, sitting up straight.

Dean flashed a smile at Cas. "Oh, yeah, this is Sam."

Jim stood, straightening his back, looking down at Dean from his full height. "Whatever my name is – whatever you talked me into in the past – I'm not going to let you kill someone just to get my memory back. I know you've been at this – magic-hunting thing a long time, but first, you don't know for sure that killing her would do a damn thing, and second, I refuse. And I'm the victim here, I should have a say. We'll figure out some other way. If magic works, we'll figure out some counteracting magic. You're not going to kill anyone just so I'm not inconvenienced."

Dean looked up at him with a cool smile and hard eyes, and Jim got the sudden feeling that his advantage of standing while Dean was sitting meant nothing. He was willing to back up his words with actions, but he hoped he didn't have to.

Dean's voice, however, was calm. "No. I'm not going to kill someone just so you're not inconvenienced. But if she starts throwing us around, choking us without touching us, starts making an escape, I will kill her to stop her from doing what she's doing. There's a highway patrolman in Nebraska who doesn't recognize his own kid thanks to her, and I'm guessing a lot of others. But. Violence won't be necessary if she's convinced we'll use it. Which means we can't have you there saying, 'Oh don't hurt her, she's just a poor little witch.'" He looked over at Cas. "Maybe we should leave him here."

"I don't – " Cas began.

"Try," Jim spat.

Dean's eyes narrowed; then he shook his head and laughed, his face relaxed. "Well, I wanted you back, I got you back. Problem is, I'm so hungry I'm about to take a bite out of your arm. You?"

"I could eat," Jim admitted.

Dean thought for a moment, then stood so quickly that Jim had to take a step back. "OK, here's the plan. We go out to dinner, someplace open late. We can't discuss witches or hunting there without whispering for an hour, so you tell us what you've been up to since Monday. We come back here, I'll tell you – I don't know if you'll sleep real well after talking about your past life, so maybe we should wait on that until tomorrow."

"I want to know. I don't care about sleep."

"But if we're gonna – " Dean interrupted himself with a gesture. "I'll tell you about our past when we get back here. We'll grab some sleep, then make the plan to get your memory back." He shook his head. "I'm going to have to fill you in on witches," and looked at Cas. "Teaching Sam Winchester how to hunt."

"I think he'll pick it up quickly. I'll let you two have dinner by yourselves, and – "

Dean waved a hand. "No, come with us to dinner. You can make yourself scarce while I give Sam our biography later." He looked back at Jim. "I want to hear about this job. You drop out of sight for six days, and you're dealing cards at a casino?"

It was weird. Intellectually, Jim wasn't sure he trusted the guy. But emotionally, he felt – well, there was no other word for it – kinship. Maybe because Dean was so obviously human.

He found himself saying with a smile, "More of a bouncer, really. The guy didn't even trust me enough to let me inside the club. He was afraid I was an undercover cop."

"Well, then why – Never mind, you can tell me at dinner. Granfalloon?"

"Anyplace that has something besides trail mix."

They went in Dean's car. It was a great car, but Jim couldn't quite understand the near-reverence with which Dean treated it. Maybe that had something to do with his missing memory.

.

Jim sat bolt upright in the big faux-leather chair. Dean, who'd been alternating between pacing and sitting on the end of a bed while he talked, got up and went to the hotel room's little refrigerator.

"Beer?" he asked.

There was silence for a moment; then, "Yeah."

Dean got him a beer and sat down again, opening his own bottle, taking a drink while he watched Jim.

"It's a lot," he finally offered.

"It's a lot," Jim said, "if it's true."

Dean raised his eyebrows, then nodded. "I was bracing myself for you being freaked out. But actually, just not believing it makes more sense."

"I just can't figure out how it benefits you if the whole thing's a scam."

"It's not."

"Unless – you want to attack this woman you say is a witch, for some reason, and you know I'm good in a fight."

Dean gave him a look that said more clearly than words, Cut the crap. "Yeah. And even though you're a total stranger, Cas knew instantly that you have amnesia and you're good in a fight when he spotted you at a psychic fair."

"Well – he is an angel."

"Oh, that you believe."

"Hard not to believe it when he does that, whatever, soul-glimpsing thing."

"Yeah. One time – "

Dean broke off, his gaze wandering. After a moment he looked back at Jim. "I just thought of an angle we might play with the witch tomorrow night. Remind me later that I have an idea."

Jim looked away, with an expression that said he might not be around later.

"What's the hardest part to believe?" Dean gave a one-syllable laugh. "Besides everything."

"Well – you know, I don't really have a problem with demons and monsters. I don't know why. Just doesn't seem _that_ unlikely."

"Probably the same reason that you decided to keep a low profile instead of going to a hospital and having your face all over the internet. You've been doing it so long, it's second nature to you. You don't remember why you believe in monsters, you just do."

"And if you accept the premise that monsters exist, you can accept the premise that there are people who hunt them for a living."

Dean snorted. "Not really a living. Just 'cause it has to be done."

"It's the more – lurid details I'm doubting. Drinking the blood of a person possessed by a demon gives you super-powers, things like that."

"It doesn't give everyone super-powers. Just the people who had this ritual done to them by that demon when they were babies."

"Because he wanted to create someone strong enough to raise Lucifer."

"Yep."

"And I raised Lucifer."

"You thought you were stopping Lucifer from being raised. It's not like you said, 'Let's release the Devil himself onto Earth just for kicks.'"

"OK, I got conned. Into raising Lucifer."

"Right." That was all Dean said, but a flash of rage went over his face that was more convincing than words.

"And I felt so bad about it that I let Lucifer possess me and jumped into a pit in Hell where we were both trapped together."

Dean nodded, swallowed.

"And then he spent about a year and a half torturing me."

"Way more than that. Time moves differently in Hell, even in a cage. Seventeen months up here translates to a hundred seventy years down there."

Jim looked at straight at Dean. "I spent a hundred seventy years being tortured by the Devil."

Dean stood and started pacing again. "You know, I thought about leaving that whole thing out. Partly because – well, I admit, I just didn't want to go over it again, partly because – it is, it's just unbelievable. But I decided I had to tell you, for two reasons. First, because when we get your memory back, I've gotta believe those hundred seventy years are going to be front and center in your head. Cas absorbed a lot of the – insanity, it was killing you, but you still have memories and feelings, and you ought to be braced for those."

Jim nodded. "Well, yeah. If that happened, I'd want to be braced for those memories coming back, sure."

"And second – " Dean sat down again, leaning toward Jim. "You – letting Lucifer in, jumping into that pit, knowing what would happen to you – I mean, I've seen people do some brave things, heroic things. I've done a couple myself. But nothing I've ever seen or heard of tops that. In terms of sheer courage, self-sacrifice. You thought you wouldn't be coming out, you know. You thought you were going to be down there forever. And you did it anyway, to spare everyone else in the world. And you – "

His voice broke. He clenched his jaw, blinked tears out of his eyes.

"You ought to know that's the kind of guy you are. That's how good you are. You should know that. Even if you can't remember why."

And again, the fervor in the words struck Jim dumb.

_If it were real – could I do that? Really? Am I that brave?_

_Well, to save everyone in the world, including my only remaining family member? I mean, wouldn't anybody?_

He was watching Dean's face as he thought. Then Jim nodded slowly. "OK. I believe you're not conning me."

Dean nodded in response, then realized the alternative and grinned. "Maybe I'm just sincerely nuts, huh?"

Jim raised his eyebrows a little, but didn't say anything for a moment. Then, "Is there anything else?"

"Lots. One thing I wanted to be sure to tell you. A few years after we got you back, a couple of monsters who could make themselves look like people changed themselves to look like us, and then went on a murder spree."

Silence. Then, "Why?"

"They knew we were a threat. They figured they could get us jailed or killed, or at least drive us deep underground. The last one was what happened. We killed the monsters who were impersonating us, and law enforcement saw those bodies, so they think we're dead now, we're not on any wanted posters or anything. But this is why I'm so glad that Dad spent years drilling it into our heads: Keep your mouth shut and your head down. If you'd gone to a hospital and they'd put out any kind of bulletin about you – "

Jim sat back in the chair, air running short in his chest. "I'd be in jail. I'd be tried for multiple murders."

"Well," Dean shrugged, "Cas and I would've got you out somehow. But I'm sure glad we don't have to."

"I was – hours away from that." He let loose a long breath. "I kind of hope you are crazy."

"It'd be nice sometimes."

Jim shook his head.

"Those monsters killed a good – one of the best friends we ever had, a guy named Bobby Singer. When you get your memory back, you're going to remember your grief about him. But you'll also get all the good memories about him back, so at least there's some balance there."

Jim nodded slowly. "What else?"

"Well – "

It was 2:30 before Jim said wanted to take a break, not sleep, just take a break from hearing about it all. He stretched out on one of the beds, his mind spinning, figuring Dean was right, he'd never have got to sleep anyway. But his system seized the chance for escape, and he was asleep in minutes.

Dean opened the door and let Castiel in. "Shall I put him into a deeper sleep?" the angel asked.

"No, let's not screw around with him any more than I already have. But could you keep an eye on him? I could use some sleep myself, and I don't want him waking up and running for the exit."

Cas nodded and sat in the chair. Dean took off his shoes, collapsed onto the other bed, and fell sound asleep.


	6. Sunday

SUNDAY

They had a narrow time window; it wasn't full dark until about nine, and the witch was expected within the hour. Fortunately, the golf club, realizing that nothing had been stolen on the previous break-in, had simply changed the oddly dysfunctional security cameras and cleaned away most of the devil's trap without taking more drastic measures. The hunters were very alert as they broke in and replaced the devil's trap – on the ceiling this time, since the paint probably wouldn't be dry by the time someone would be walking on it. But no police or private security came to interrupt them, and they were ready for the witch by 9:40.

The entrance to the parking lot was about a block away from their end of the parking lot, but it was obvious when she arrived. Dean opened the door of the car they'd stolen earlier long enough to stick out an arm and wave, and an old SUV drove in their direction, making so much noise it sounded like it had a diesel engine.

"She wasn't kidding about it being a piece of crap," Dean mumbled.

She pulled up next to their stolen car. Now would be one of the trickiest moments. Dean didn't want to be sitting in the car when they attacked, but if the woman was somehow using Sam's memories, she might recognize Dean and simply drive off, requiring a car chase and way too much attention. Not to mention that he didn't want her to see the handcuff around his wrist. So he waited until she was getting out of the car to get out himself, looking back into the car as he did, so that his face wasn't turned to her until she was almost right up next to him.

"Are you Ed?" she asked as he turned to her. Then her eyes narrowed. "Wait a – "

Dean seized her wrist and slammed the other cuff on it. Jim jumped up from behind the car and ran toward them. She snarled something in Latin and both them flew in opposite directions away from her, but the handcuff held, and as Dean slammed back against the car she was pulled off her feet.

Jim was staggered. He couldn't imagine anything slamming him around without physical force. Anyway, he couldn't remember it.

Dean was sitting on the ground between the cars, struggling with the witch, trying to keep a hand clamped over her mouth. "Sam!"

Jim snapped out of it, pulling the tie from Dean's FBI suit out of his pocket as he ran over to them. Cathy glared at him ferociously over Dean's hand as she bit it, and waved her free hand at Jim.

Agonizing pain in his knees, and Jim fell. But he had the presence of mind to fall forward, and crawled on his stomach toward them, on the ground between the cars. Dean pulled his hand out from between her teeth and just hit her hard on the back of the head. She made a startled choking noise as her head snapped forward, and now Jim was there to loop the tie over her head. He pulled the overhead knot tight so that the material went between her teeth and pulled back against her tongue, destroying her enunciation. He groaned in pain, but focused on grabbing her free hand.

Dean used his cuffed arm to put her in a chokehold, dragging her cuffed arm backward. "You know the quickest way to break a spell?" he gasped.

She went still.

"Let my brother go," he said.

She wiggled the fingers of the hand Jim held. Jim let her pull her hand loose, and she gestured. The pain stopped immediately and he sucked in air, both in amazement and relief.

Dean used his free hand to grab Cathy's free hand and force it toward Jim. Jim, very motivated now, grabbed a blue tie out of another pocket, put her hands together, and looped the tie around her hands, separating the thumbs from the rest of her fingers. It was another overhand knot, which Jim pulled tighter, wrapping the tie around her hands so that they were bound together and immobile.

Now that she couldn't just send a gun flying with a flick of her fingers, Dean got his gun out from behind his back and showed it to her. "We're going to walk into that building there," he said, "sit down and have a talk. You answer some questions, break some spells, you don't get hurt. Right?"

She said something behind the gag that sounded unfriendly.

"Is that a yes or a no?" Dean asked.

She looked at the gun, nodded.

Dean handed the gun to Jim, pulled the handcuff key from a pocket, and unlocked the cuffs, grunting and shaking his wrist. Jim sat on her legs as Dean did this, which made her snarl again, but Jim was taking no chances at this point.

"You were right," he told Dean. "We should've threatened her with the gun to begin with."

Dean gave a one-shoulder shrug. "She would've just sent it into the nearest sandtrap and we'd have wound up fighting anyway." He took the gun from Jim. "OK. Everybody up and move, nice and quiet."

They'd left the door to the maintenance building slightly ajar, so it was easy for Jim to move quickly to it, only a few yards' walk. Cathy followed, Dean jamming the gun into her back, and Jim took a quick look around and then closed the door securely once they were all inside.

The big room was floodlit, filled with riding mowers and other greenskeeping equipment. There had been a folding table and two chairs; the table and one chair was pushed against the wall, and Cathy, following Dean's gestured command, sat in the other chair.

She'd been carrying a black cloth bag with occult symbols over her shoulder, and it was hanging from her wrists now. They couldn't slip the bag off of her without unbinding her hands, so Jim got a knife from the weapons bag on the floor and cut the bag's strap. Then he got rope from the bag and bound her to the chair, Dean holding her at gunpoint the while.

Dean could see her better in the lighted building than he could outside. She was petite but full-breasted, wearing a long black dress with a lot of décolletage. Her eyes were large and dark, her skin pale and smooth. Her long rumpled hair was probably originally a medium brown, but the raven-black dye job was flattering. Her hairclips and earrings glittered with the showiness of real diamonds.

"I can understand what Warren sees in her," Dean said. "If you don't mind that she's a self-absorbed thief with a flannel mouth."

Jim snorted as he finished tying her. "Not my type. – Is she?"

Dean put the gun back in his waistband. "We'll talk about Ruby the demon later."

Meanwhile, Cathy had been observing the room's main attraction. The devil's trap on the ceiling was centered on the cord of one of the dangling floodlights, and Castiel stood directly under the light. His trench coat and suit jacket were nowhere in sight. His shirt collar was open – which made sense, since his tie was currently being used to bind the witch's hands.

He met Cathy's startled gaze with a look of contempt, shaking his head. He paced a couple of steps under the devil's trap, looked up at it with irritation – causing Cathy to look up at it as well – and shook his head again.

"OK, Cathy Corn from North Dakota," Dean said. "Let's talk. But understand something. Anything magical comes out of you, the gag goes back in and conversation ends. Got it?"

She'd decided on a tactic. She shrank back in her chair with a frightened little whimper and a tiny nod. Jim loosened the tie that was in her mouth and left it hanging in a loop around her neck.

She focused only on Dean, and spoke quietly. "Please don't hurt me."

Jim laughed explosively. "Says the woman who just kneecapped me!"

She continued to address Dean only. "You attacked me! I don't know what he told you, if he said I tortured him or – "

"He couldn't tell me anything. No memory. I had to chase all over the Midwest doing detective work. But I figured it out, so don't try to pretend you don't know what's going on."

"Please," Castiel said, "don't give me any credit. I love being completely ignored." His voice was calm, uninflected.

Dean cast a glance over his shoulder at Cas, then looked back at Cathy. "With some help from your demonic source." He looked back at Cas again. "Happy now?"

"Thrilled."

Cathy gave a contemptuous little chortle. "You're saying this is a demon? Shouldn't he have, like, horns or something?"

"Don't you know he's a demon? You've been rooting through my brother's memories, don't you know who he is?"

This was a key moment, and Jim, who was going through Cathy's bag, stopped and looked over. They had three separate courses of action laid out, depending on how much of Sam's memories she'd seen: One if she knew exactly who and what Castiel was, one if she had no idea, and one if she had only a confused idea.

"Why do you keep talking about memories? I don't have anything to do with – "

"Fine." Dean pulled the gun again.

"No, stop! I don't – OK, I do. I know some things."

"You've seen him in Sam's memories?" Dean asked, jerking his head toward Cas.

She gave a sigh and settled back, as much as she could. "I have. I mean, I think so. But look, you have to understand something about your brother. We need to talk in private. It's important."

"Not gonna happen. If you have something to say, say it."

She took a breath, looked around at Jim. "Please don't – I'm not trying to hurt you, he needs to know this." She looked back at Dean. "He's kind of – He's got some kind of delusions. Like him." She looked at Cas. "Sometimes he thinks that guy's an angel, sometimes he's this scary magical guy killing people. He has these – "

Cas' gaze dropped. He took a breath and got back into character as Cathy continued, " – these fantasies about being tortured by the devil. I mean, they're so real to him, they're like honest-to-God memories. Really sick awful stuff. I mean, I don't really try to get into people's personal lives. I'm not trying to blackmail anyone or anything."

Dean nodded slowly. "You have a way of focusing on just money and property."

"Yeah. Just the way you would on your own stuff. 'I need money, where do I have some?' 'Where did I leave the car keys?' Like that. I don't get into people's sex lives or their childhood or anything like that. I'm not evil."

"OK," Dean said.

"But I can't help seeing something about personal lives. And your brother – he's got all this shit that jumps up at you. And you really need to get him some help for it. He thinks about you being ripped up by invisible wolves. Or maybe it's like a hallucination. And the crazy stuff with him," glancing at Cas, "and these God-awful hallucinations about being tortured by the devil. I mean, I'm not saying you owe me anything, but maybe it's a good thing I did this. You should know he's got problems. Serious problems."

"Or," Dean sounded like he was presenting an alternative plan at a business meeting, "he was tortured by the Devil."

She rolled her eyes. "Sure. Which explains why he's standing there burned to a crisp with things growing out of his eyes and mouth."

A little revolted sound was jerked out of Jim.

She heard it and doubled down, leaning toward Dean as much as she could, her voice intense. "You're his brother, right? The two of you are, like, really close? You don't want him to get this crap back. You can tell him anything he needs to know about normal stuff, and get him to a doctor. Maybe he won't start developing these hallucinations again, they can give him meds or something."

"What a humanitarian," Dean said. "What about all the other people whose memories you stole?"

"What other people?"

"Come on, Cathy. Warren told us you have a whole spell book of them."

Her eyes narrowed. "Warren's a liar," she said, adding an adjective to "liar."

"No spell book in the bag," Jim said. "And no potion."

"We know you keep it handy," Dean said. "You laid out a highway patrolman, and I don't think you said, 'I have something to show you, just a minute while I go through my luggage.' So where is it?"

"What does the highway patrol have to do with it? There's no book. Your brother was, like, an experiment, the first time I did this."

Jim said, "You were just talking about how you focus on money and property with your other victims."

"No, I – Wait – Did I? I meant – "

"God, you're bad at this, Cathy," Dean said with amusement. "You may have mad skills as a witch, but you suck as a crook. Now give us the spell book and tell us how to break the spells."

"There is no spell book."

"Fine. I'll search you. I'm no gentleman. And even if I were, you're no lady."

"Or you could let me do it," Cas said. "It's not like I don't know everything about her anyway."

They'd done some practicing with Cas this afternoon, and had discovered that when he tried to "sound evil," he was hilariously awful. But when he simply said what a demon would say, in his normal, deep, almost emotionless voice, he was very convincing and could even be scary. Cathy looked over at him and sounded a little rattled as she asked, "What do you mean, know everything? You don't know a damn thing about me!"

"I told you she'd say that," Cas said to Dean. "She thinks she creates magic out of thin air."

"You do?" Dean asked her, as if he'd never heard anything that stupid.

"Not out of thin air. There's power out there, in the, like, ether of the universe. If you learn how to use your willpower, you can focus the universe's power and do things you want."

Dean turned to Cas. "Look, if she has no idea that her power comes from a demonic source, I don't see how you get her soul – "

"From a what?" Cathy yelled, as Dean continued, "and our deal is off."

"It's not a 'deal,'" Cas said. "And her ignorance about me doesn't matter. If she's using magic to hurt and rob people, she's mine."

"What the hell is this moron – "

Cathy broke off suddenly, looking at Cas, and smiled. "Oh, I get it. Trying to scare me. Oh, don't let the mean demon hurt me, I'll tell you everything! Well, there isn't anything to tell you. There's no spell book. And you know what? There's no demons either. So you can tell him to come out from under that devil's trap. No one's believed that crap since, like, the fourteen-hundreds."

"Look, Cathy," Dean said. "I'm gonna explain this to you. I want you to listen like your life depended on it. Demons exist. Andrealphus here is one. He's helped us out from time to time, but that doesn't mean we're best buds. So yeah, we decided to use him for leverage against you. We're going to exorcise him tonight, send him back to Hell."

"Maybe," Cas said.

"The question is," Dean continued, "does he get to go back there with you? Or does he go all by his lonesome? If he takes you along, he might get a better reception from the infernal torturers. Like bringing a hostess gift."

"Bull," she snapped.

"The good part is, Sam and me, we don't even have to have killing you on our conscience. We just push you into that circle, and whatever happens after that, that's on Andrealphus. He might just leave you alone."

Cas gave a tiny, almost inaudible, laugh.

"Or he might pull your soul right out of your body and drag it to Hell when we exorcise him. You know all the psycho delusions you saw in Sam's memory? Not delusions. That's what happens. If you hadn't pulled this crap on my brother, I might've just said, Shoot her, break the spell, maybe her soul has a chance. But you took my brother's memories that he was just beginning to deal with. Now he's going to have to face all that crap again like it's the first time. You robbed him. You robbed us. Sam maybe has some nice memories about me, because I like him, but I don't give a damn about – well, anybody else, really. And if you don't give us what we want, we'll give Andrealphus what he wants. Simple as that."

Cas smiled, and his eyes lit up, glowing an intense blue-white. Cathy saw it and started.

Then she swallowed and said, "Ooh. Special effects. Cool."

"Where's the spell book, Cathy?"

She tore her gaze from Castiel and looked up at Dean. "I left it in New York. I'll take you there."

He looked at her for a moment.

Then he said, "Sam?"

"Not a chance," Jim said.

"Andrealphus?"

"Untrue."

"OK, that makes it unanimous." Dean grabbed one side of her chair, Jim stepped up to grab the other, and they began dragging her toward Castiel, who seemed to be watching with mild interest.

"If he does something to me, you'll never know where the spell book is."

"Doesn't matter, remember?" Dean said. "The moment your soul's out of your body, all the spells are broken. Everyone gets their memory back. Brace yourself, Sam, just another few seconds."

By this time they'd pushed her under the devil's trap with Cas, and they both sprang out of it immediately so that the demon couldn't attack them. She looked up at Cas defiantly. He gave her a small smile and put his fingers on her temples.

Cas had told Jim that when he looked at Sam's soul, he'd done it as gently as possible, and that he intended to give Cathy a "more rigorous" examination. Remembering the feeling that a gentle examination was vibrating him out of his own body, Jim wasn't surprised when Cathy lunged backward in the chair and screamed. Even with just his fingers on her head, Cas was able to keep her from falling away from him, and she screamed again. "Stop! Stop it! Stop!"

Jim grabbed the back of the chair and pulled her away from Castiel.

She gasped, blinking hard, and screamed again. "What was that, you sons of bitches? What was that?"

"Well, that was magic, Cathy," Dean said. "Not much fun when it's used against you, is it?"

"Give her back to me," Cas said in a level tone. "We had a deal."

"We're going to follow through on a deal with someone tonight, Cathy. Either Andrealphus gets you and the spells get broken, or you give us the spell book and potion, you get to live, and the spells get broken."

"There's a pouch on my leg," she said sullenly.

Dean brushed back of the hem of her dress from her ankle.

"Higher."

In businesslike fashion, he lifted her skirt to show a thin leather pouch attached to her thigh with an elastic band. "Opens in front," he said approvingly. "She could be sitting in a car, pop up the skirt, get out the potion, and put the skirt back down without even unfastening the seatbelt."

The pouch contained a small book with a fabric cover and pages, sewn together by hand, and a shallow glass pot with a screw top. Jim put out his hand for the book and Dean handed it to him, then opened the jar to reveal a thick, sticky looking, dark green substance.

"Sure enough," Jim said, and pulled out of his jeans pocket the crumpled paper towel he'd been carrying around since last Monday. He held it next to the open jar; the dried substance on the paper towel was obviously the same.

"How does it work?" Dean asked her.

With anger, "Well, first you spend two years coming up with the potion."

"How diligent. And then?"

"You put some of the potion on someone's forehead, and it sparkles. You transfer it from their forehead to a page in the book. You keep repeating that until it doesn't sparkle anymore, that means the transfer's complete."

"And I just sit there and let you do that?" Jim asked.

She shrugged, as best she could. "They fall asleep."

"And wake up with no memory. In a strange place. Even if they're at home, it's a strange place to them."

"And they have no money," Dean said. "How does that work? Warren said that you said it had something to do with smell."

"Warren's a jerk." She looked up at Dean defiantly, lowered her gaze. "Dampen the page. Enough so the potion isn't completely dry and you can smell it. You inhale the scent while you say 'Money' or 'Car' or 'ATM' or something."

"And how – "

"Just a moment, Dean," Jim said. He was looking at the last smeared page of the book; there were a few blank pages after that. "I want to see if this works. There's a jug of water in the duffel, right?"

"Holy water, yeah. Any reason why holy water wouldn't work?" Dean asked Cathy.

"I don't know. I never tried."

"What a surprise," he said, and looked over at Jim, who was opening the jug. He splashed water over his fingertips and began patting the smeared page.

"What does it say on the top of the page?" Dean asked.

"Nebraska, Highway 281." Jim sniffed a little, dampened the page a bit more, then inhaled deeply as he looked at Cathy and said, "This woman."

_Looks like she's alone in the car, but you can't take anything for granted. Check the back seat, be aware. Why would anyone in Witness Protection – _

"Sam. Talk to us," Dean said. It was jarring, like being deep in a dream while someone tries to wake you up.

"Why would anyone in Witness Protection steal this car?" Jim said in a near whisper. "Might as well have a billboard on top."

He was teetering without realizing it. Dean took hold of him and guided him to the floor. His eyes were wide open but his gaze absent, as if he were watching a movie in a neighbor's house from across the street.

"Pretty girl. Watch the bag. That's moisturizer? The things women do – Flirta – "

Jim blinked, took a breath, looked around, his gaze focused now. "He was watching for a gun, or an accomplice," he said. "He wasn't expecting a flirtatious girl to put a blob of her gross-looking moisturizer on his head – that's what she told him it was. He pulled back, but he felt just a little cool dot," Jim tapped his forehead, "right here. She said 'Oblivion,' and that's it."

Dean looked at Cathy. "How do we break the spell?"

She waited for only a reluctant moment. "Burn the page."

Dean nodded. "Sammy, there's gasoline in the duffel."

"But not the whole book," Jim said. "This could be really useful in your line of work."

"_Our_ line – " Dean began, then said, "You think?"

"Sure. Some demon has a hostage somewhere, some – guy has a doomsday weapon or something. You capture him, you don't have to spend a lot of time interrogating him. Just – "

He beckoned at the open jar, and Dean gave it to him, looking thoughtful. He asked Cathy, "Would this crap work on a demon possessing a human host?"

"How the hell should I know? I didn't even think demons existed until you let that one nearly kill me!"

"Oh. Yeah." Dean looked around. "Cas, you're free to go."

"Thank you." Cas walked out of the devil's trap.

Cathy's eyes widened, then quickly she affected indifference. "Shoulda known. You're bigger crooks than I am. How'd you do that – "

Cas rounded and stared down at her. His eyes were glowing again, but it seemed to be the expression on his face that silenced her.

"Demons exist," he said quietly. "As it happens, I am an angel. We exist as well, and when one speaks to you, you should listen carefully. You must stop living your life solely for your own gain at the expense of others. It is true that you have had difficulties in your past, but you exaggerate those in your mind to give yourself excuses for your behavior. Do not do that. You are traveling a road that will eventually, and surely, lead your soul to Hell. It is an isolated road, cold and lonely, as much as you will try to convince yourself that material goods are the only companions and comfort you require. You will inflict misery on others, you will live in misery yourself, and eventually you will damn your soul."

His eyes returned to normal. He crouched in front of her so that their faces were on a level, and his sad, serious expression was even more striking than his indignation had been. "You are still capable of forming bonds with your fellow humans, still capable of repentance. Please do not dismiss the chances you are given."

He stood and moved over to a riding lawnmower, where his suit jacket and trench coat were draped over the seat, out of sight.

Her eyes followed him. "So – the 'demonic source' for magic – that was just – "

He turned to her. "The power of magic is like the power of electricity. It is neutral. You can use it to light people's lives, or to burn and maim them."

"Don't know that many people who've ever used magic for good," Dean said. "We usually end up hunting them." He cast a straight dark look at Cathy.

Cas was putting on his jacket. "As with all power, the greater it is, the greater the chance that it will corrupt the person using it."

"What I don't get is why?" Jim asked. "Dean said you told Warren that you were broke when you were in Kansas City. You cleaned out – " he riffled the pages of the book – "all these people, and you were broke?"

"Some of the ingredients cost a lot," she said. "And I live in hotels. That way you can keep moving around. And there's room service. But it's really expensive."

"And a fondness for real diamonds doesn't help either," Dean said with amusement.

She looked up at him angrily. "Some bitch gets diamonds just because she married rich, why shouldn't I have them?"

"You must learn how unimportant these things are," Cas said forcefully. "You must learn it now. Or you will realize it in Hell."

"Why me?" Jim asked. "Did I look really rich?" Dean laughed.

"No, but – I was desperate. The Linda Hall Library is science and technology, I figured I might run across a rich engineer or head of a tech company or someone." She made a face. "Everyone else there that day was students, except for one old geezer with a shirt from the 1990s. At least you had a really nice watch."

"I did?"

"Tool of the trade," Dean said. "Where is it?"

"I got a hundred dollars for it."

Dean gave her a disgusted look.

She looked back at Jim. "After you went down to the Rare Book room, I used magic to get in there, but I wasn't expecting the woman down there who wanted to sign me in. So fine, I gave her a phony name and address so I could look at you while I walked around."

"Why did you disable the outside security camera and not the one in the reading room?" Dean asked.

She was astonished. "There's one in the reading room? Why not in the vault?"

"Well, there's probably one there too. My God, if it weren't for magic, you wouldn't be able to jaywalk without getting caught."

She looked resentful. "I'm not dumb. I know that if a guy's reading a book in Latin and making notes, he's got a good education. So I figured – good watch, good education – some money, anyway, interest in the occult, maybe he's got something I can sell Warren. When you left, I passed you on the steps pretending to cry. I had the feeling you were the type to follow a woman and sit on a bench with her and try and be all helpful."

"You took advantage of his kindness," Castiel said.

"Yeah, how terrible. 'Cause no one ever took advantage of me."

"All right," Dean said briskly, presumably before Castiel could attempt to save Cathy's soul with another lecture, "we know enough to get down to business. Keeping the book for future use was a good idea, Sam. Let's cut out the used pages and make a little bonfire on the concrete floor here."

"We should do just me first," Jim said. "In case she's trying to pull something on us, in case it's damaging, or something, to burn the page."

"I'm sure Cathy realizes," Dean was looking directly at her, "that if anything happens to you besides your memory getting returned, I send the angel away to take you to a hospital and the night ends very ugly for her."

"It'll be fine," she said hastily.

Jim cut the next-to-last page from the book; the heading said "Kansas City" and last Monday's date. He intended to lightly sprinkle the page with the gasoline, but he was nervous and wound up soaking it. Remembering how he'd been too distracted by the patrolman's memory even to stay on his feet, he sat near the page, put the potion jar on the floor, and struck a match.

Jim looked up at Dean, swallowed, said, "Here we go," and tossed the match onto the page.

Yellow flame with blue edges blossomed on the fabric, spreading to the edges, and there was a smell of burning gasoline and flesh. The sound of screaming, he was screaming, and Jess the love of his life was twisting a flaming knife in his gut and laughing.

"Sam!" He could hear Dean's voice from far away. But now he was remembering, the blurred half-conscious memory of Castiel pulling the worst of the insanity out of him, his own way of dealing with the rest of it, meditation, focus, focus on good –

"Give him a moment," he heard Cas say, and he felt Dean jostling him, taking hold of his shoulders. Dean waking him from nightmares and he would wake Dean from nightmares and all those laughable motel rooms and the Impala, the Impala –

"OK," he gasped to Dean, his vision beginning to clear, but things still sliding together in his head, crashing together like the world's most intense game of Tetris – Dad and Mom, vampires wendigos and werewolves, Stanford and Sioux Falls and Lawrence and Lebanon –

Sam looked at Dean in astonishment. "My God."

"Are you OK?"

"I am. I'm just – Wow." He sat up straighter, but didn't even try to stand yet. "I can't believe that was all gone. Incredible."

"Are you sorry it's back?"

Only a moment's thought. "No. Not that some of it isn't horrible. But it's me, you know, it's what I am. Hey." He pointed at Dean, with a chuckle. "You scared me, you son of a bitch."

"When?"

"Just now. You were trying to convince her that you'd let a demon kill her, telling her you liked me but you didn't give a damn about other people. I thought, 'My God, I've got a psychopath for a brother.'" He laughed breathlessly. "I've got a really good actor for a brother."

"Sometimes you have to scare the crap out of someone. Another tool of the trade."

Sam nodded, looked over at Cas. "Did I ever say thank you for absorbing the brunt of my PTSD?"

"Many times. But surely you remember – "

"I do, but, well – thanks anyway." Then, as he was looking at Cas, a new astonishment spread over his face, and he looked back at Dean with a grin. "Oh, you didn't bother telling me everything, did you?"

"Shut up," Dean informed him.

"OK." Sam rubbed his head. "There was something I was thinking, Jim was thinking, a moment ago, what – Yeah. Let's dampen each of these pages and get the victim's name before we burn it. That way we can follow up."

It turned into a small assembly line – disassembly line would be more accurate. Sam cut the used pages out with the knife, read the city and date out loud, dampened the page and breathed in the potion's smell, saying "My name," then said the victim's name as the memory came to him. Cas listened to the cities, dates, and names, standing with his hands in his coat pockets, keeping an eye on Cathy, watching the two brothers sitting on the concrete floor. Dean sprinkled each page with gasoline and added it to the growing heap of blackened cloth on the floor, blotting up excess gasoline, watching sparks to make sure they didn't land on anything flammable. Throughout, Cathy was so quiet that it was like she hoped they'd forget she was there.

Finally, Cas gathered the smoldering rags in his hands for disposal. Sam and Dean stood, Sam picking up the potion jar and Dean putting the water, gasoline, and matches back in the duffel.

Sam walked over to Cathy. He did it so casually that she didn't even notice the gob of potion on his finger until he moved it to her forehead.

She jerked back and started, "No – " as he touched her head and said, "Oblivion."

All of her muscles relaxed. She slumped in the chair, her expression vacant, eyes blinking slowly.

As she had said, the potion was sparkling. Dean held the book open and Sam wiped potion off of Cathy's forehead, transferring it to the first blank page. He kept dipping into the pot, putting potion on her forehead, lifting the sparkling potion from her and putting it on the page, until the page was almost covered and the potion on her forehead was just a dull smear.

"Let's clean that off," Sam said. "Leave as few clues as we can."

He rinsed his fingers and cleaned her forehead. She was sound asleep by then, so Dean unbound her from the chair and untied her hands, handing Cas' tie back to him, and taking his own tie from around her neck.

"How long do you figure until she finds her way back to magic?" Sam asked.

"Months, maybe years," Dean said.

"I was hunting a mugger within a few days."

"Yeah, but wanting to catch a bad guy is normal. No one around her is going to be saying, 'Gee, I wish I knew someone who could cast a spell.' They're going to be trying to figure out how she has head trauma with no signs of head trauma. I'm just sorry that she won't remember what Cas told her."

"It is possible that I touched her soul on a level below memory. But I doubt it," Cas said in a melancholy tone.

"Let's leave the door ajar, so she'll be able to leave when she wakes up," Sam said.

"You're a lot kinder – Oh, hey." Dean dug his phone out of his pocket.

"Who are you calling?"

"Police department of Aurora, Illinois. – Yeah, hi, there's a guy named Warren." Dean gave the address clearly. "He's been tied in a vault in his house for about thirty-six hours, him and his bodyguard, so probably a good idea to get over there and get him out. Might want to send a detective from Robbery over there, too, he might recognize some of the stuff on the shelves." He disconnected and looked a little disgruntled. "Now I've got to get rid of this phone. Let's get our stuff and get out of here."

They took Cathy's bag with them. Dean drove the stolen car, Sam riding shotgun, while Castiel followed them in Cathy's roaring SUV.

"Are you sure you're OK?" Dean asked after a couple of minutes of silence.

"Yes. I'm just still trying to – mesh Jim Hunter with me, I guess. I have the feeling there are lessons I should be learning from the whole thing."

"Like?"

"Well – I'm in the right line of work. Sometimes you wonder. Not only if you're right for it, but whether it's worth everything you have to go through."

"I know I'm right for it," Dean said. "But that second point, yeah."

"Sometimes I wonder. But the moment Mike told me that mugger had hit another customer of the club, I wanted to drop everything else – including figuring out who I was – to track the guy down. That's maybe one of those second-nature things, I do it even when I don't know that I normally do it, but also, I think, I have a real, a built-in – "

"Desire to see justice done," Dean said.

Sam nodded. "Yeah. And to be a part of a team. At the same time, I think it would be good for me to be by myself sometimes. There was something about that – no time pressure, focusing more on my own thoughts – I think that was good for me."

"Good for you? Except for the witch casting a spell on you that could have put you in prison for crimes you didn't do?"

"Yeah, except for that."

"It's dangerous for us to split up for too long, Sammy. This whole week proves it."

"Well – lots of things are dangerous." He looked over at Dean with a smile. "How about I go off by myself once in a while, and I promise not to talk to any strange women?"

"Well. I wouldn't block you that bad."

"I just think it might not be a bad idea for us to learn to be Sam. And Dean. Instead of just half of SamandDean."

"DeanandSam. And you're gonna have to give me some time to recuperate from this last little adventure in self-discovery before you take off on another one."

Sam chuckled. "Fair enough."

Then he looked straight through the windshield, because he knew Dean would be embarrassed, and said, "And another thing I learned is how grateful I am to be part of a team I respect, where I know the other guys are as focused on doing the right thing as I try to be. Even when we disagree on what the right thing is, Dean, I am always proud to be associated with you."

After a moment, Dean lifted his chin a bit. "Same here."

In a few minutes, they pulled up next to the Impala, parked on the edge of a large parking lot. Castiel had somehow beat them there, and they joined him in transferring the Winchesters' property from Cathy's car to the trunk and back seat of the Impala.

Dean shook his head as they finished by draping an open sleeping bag over the items in the back seat. "We're going to be cleaning up her mess for a week. We've got to get the stuff from the storage unit back to New York, got to mock up some paperwork so we can get the Coronet back from Chicago PD and tow it back to Lebanon, along with all the stuff she stole from the bunker."

"And – " Sam said.

"And?"

Sam looked at Cas. "I'm the one who just got over amnesia, right?" Then, to Dean, "Water monster in Rathbun Lake?"

"Crap. Yeah. I checked on that a couple of days ago, no deaths since the ones last week, but I've been pretty distracted."

"My research at the Linda Hall Library turned up something. Aldrovandi says these things are exclusively fresh-water creatures. He had a story about one who wandered into an estuary in Italy, where there was an inlet from the sea. It was found dead, with desiccated skin."

"Salt," Dean said. "We use a salt shooter on it."

"Maybe a couple of them. Did you get my weapons bag back from that fence?"

"Yeah, it's in the trunk with the other stuff from Illinois, and mine's buried in the back seat somewhere. We'll have to dig them out."

"But not now," Cas said. "We should put as much distance between ourselves and the witch's car as possible."

"Right," Dean said. "If we start now, we can be halfway to Iconium by – Hey!"

Sam was climbing into the driver's seat of the Impala.

"Slow down. Have I been drinking? Did I say I was too tired to drive?"

"Nope." Sam was grinning. "But I know you want to give a team member a break. Poor Jim Hunter never got to drive in his life."

"It does seem like the least you could do for Jim," Cas said. "He took good care of Sam."

Dean shook his head, rolling his eyes, as Cas wedged himself into the back seat between the recovered items and the door. "One hour. Then I'm back behind the wheel." He dropped into the passenger's seat and closed the door.

Sam started the Impala, smiled at the familiar sound, and looked over at Dean. "You'll have to take that up with Jim," he said, and headed for the highway.

.

.

THE END


End file.
